Carefully Erase the Sorrow
by Neocolai
Summary: After Frerin's death, Thorin begs for a second chance. Fate has never smiled kindly on the Sons of Durin, for one hundred years later Thorin's request is granted. Frerin son of Dís is not to be raised as a prince, however. Lost in the Shire, he is taken in by an ordinary Hobbit who is more a grocer than a burglar...
1. Dream Child

**A.N.** I have officially written the last chapter of NCHY. Those who are keeping up with my story, hope for semi-daily updates until the last chapter is posted. In the meantime, I intend to begin this lovely idea that has been wracking my brain for over a year.

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_"He was born in the summer of his twenty-seventh year, coming home to a place he'd never been before. He left yesterday behind him, you might say he was born again. You might say he found the key for every door…." (John Denver, Rocky Mountain High)_

* * *

_It was late winter when Frerin son of Thrain stared pleadingly into the eyes of his elder brother, knowing all along that no rescue would come. When Dwalin son of Fundin raged to avenge his father's death, neglecting to defend the smaller charge left in his care. When the knife of the Pale Orc sprayed crimson droplets across the last patch of clean snow, and Thorin stared in horror and despair, knowing he was too late._

_He watched his brother's murder; slow and drawn out to the last agonized scream, and he did nothing._

_He would have given anything for a second chance._

_But fate never smiled kindly upon the Sons of Durin. For in the late winter, on the stroke of that same devastating morning when the sun failed to shine, Thorin's request was granted._

* * *

Icicles crept past the windows, dripping quietly in growing puddles along the walls. The wind shrieked past the shutters, as menacing as the howls that chilled Bilbo's soul. Winter gripped the hillside of Bag-End. Inside the snug Hobbit hole, however, the air was weighted with heat and the fire roared with a ferocity fit to roast a dragon – or so Bilbo imagined as he watched the flames take form.

Snow banked high along the roads, preventing many families from reaching neighbors and supplies. Larders emptied slowly and wood was precious. In the wealthy halls of Bag-End, hunger had yet to find Bilbo. His suppers might have been more meagre, and he woke often in the night shivering from cold, but his sturdy hole with its storehouse of treasures – food and ale and blankets that Belladonna Took had stored away years ago – kept him comfortably satisfied through the never-ending storming

"The Fell Winter", some tradesmen already called it. Summer had been abruptly cut off in a hail of sleet and snow. Ice toppled oaks and crippled farms, and still the weather grew colder. Mid-winter was now upon them. In time, Bilbo worried that even his supplies would run low and he might know the dreadful pangs of not-quite-having-enough.

Such was an awful thought to the poor Hobbit, that he had spent the good part of the evening fretting before the fire, a mug of cooling tea clenched in his chapped hands. He was so distraught over his own problems that he nearly missed the soft mewling outside. The wind died down but for an instant. Had he been distracted a moment longer, he would have missed it entirely.

But the sound reached a sharp pitch, much like a kitten or a Hobbit lass who – after tripping and dropping her piece of birthday cake, exhausted herself with crying – and Bilbo was goaded from the sleepy comforts of his armchair.

There was little doubt about checking outside – not even a cruel Hobbit would leave a child alone in the cold – but Bilbo had to gather his courage, bolster himself with his warmest coat and hat, and ensure a proper kettle of tea was boiling before he ventured outside. Icy flakes smarted his eyes the moment he opened the door. Instantly the wind tried to gust out his fire. Complaining abominably, and hoping it was not a cat or wolf pup he was venturing after, Bilbo slammed the door shut and tucked his freezing hands under his arms.

"Hello? Is anyone out there?"

His numbed ears could no longer pick up the whimpers, but against the wall a dark shape bulged. Tutting softly, Bilbo cautiously approached. It was a child indeed, pressed against the side of the house where the light from Bilbo's fire shone faintly through the cracks in the shutters. It looked to be a small lass, wearing boots with broken buckles and a thin coat which no proper mother would have bestowed upon her children. Tears froze on thin cheeks, crusting her eyelids like thin plates of glass.

"There, now," Bilbo said, pulling up the child quickly and looking about for fear that the wolves might have followed her to his door. "Where did you come from?"

No time for answers, even if the lass had voice to give them. Bilbo hustled inside and locked the door, depositing the child in his armchair before bustling about for a cup of tea.

"You must be from the trader's wagons," he guessed. The hair was too fine and long for a Hobbit lass, even if the boots had not proclaimed her as a child of Men. "Did you fall? Is your mother searching for you?"

A pitched whine was his only answer. The poor thing might have no parents at all, Bilbo thought. Orphans had crowded the Shire since the wolves began straying into homes and farms. She might be a lucky survivor.

"Well, then," he said heavily, "You'll be here for a long while, I assume – at least until the storm has passed. I'll take you down to the market as soon as the weather calms, and we'll see if you have a guardian looking for you."

A sniffle. Still no words. Armed with tea that had been properly cooled and sweetened with blackberry honey, Bilbo shook the child's shoulder and coaxed her to drink.

"Oh… but you're not a lass, are you?" he realized. At least – as far as Bilbo knew – even among Men the lasses wore skirts and the lads wore trousers.

Insulted brown eyes stared reproachfully and the child wearily rubbed his eyes. Definitely a lad, then. He looked prepared to cry again, had he the strength. Quickly Bilbo pressed the tea into tiny, spindly hands.

"You can't be more than a few summers old," he guessed sadly. "Where is your mother, lad? How did you come to be here alone?"

The child's eyes drooped and Bilbo crooked a finger under his chin, urging him to stay awake.

"Finish the tea, and we'll get you out of those soaked clothes. Then you can sleep as long as you wish."

One last tired swallow, and then the child blatantly pushed the cup into Bilbo's hands. He curled into himself, shivering.

"Oh, dear," Bilbo muttered. He had no experience with children – he was barely in his tweens himself, and had no younger siblings of his own. "Look, you – you must drink the tea, do you understand? You're nearly frozen through."

Stubbornly silent, the child shifted so that his bronze hair fell over his arms.

"Well, this will never do," Bilbo said. "You may refuse the tea, but you will not sit there in those wet things. Come on, now." He scooped the child up, eliciting a soft gasp. Instantly Bilbo paused. "I'm not going to hurt you."

The child seemed properly terrified, but there was nothing Bilbo could do but hustle him to the spare room, where he kept all the old things he could never get rid of. Quickly he exchanged the child's clothes for a dry shirt and overalls that had once fit him when he was a lad. The lad (definitely a he, Bilbo learned), glared up at Bilbo indignantly, but he had yet to voice a single protest. At least he was dry and warm, and for Bilbo that was good enough.

"Now, are you sure you don't want the tea?" Bilbo asked as he carried the child back to his armchair and settled him before the fire.

Wide brown eyes watched him suspiciously. At length Bilbo shrugged. "All right, then. I can't make you –"

Before he could walk back to the kitchen, the child yipped in distress and grabbed for his sleeve. Uncertainty lanced his features and a fresh tear plopped from the narrow chin.

"Oh… you want me to stay here?"

Eagerly the child shuffled to the side, squeezing against the arm of the chair as tightly as he could manage. Being an abnormally small child, it left ample room for Bilbo to seat himself comfortably. Even before his back hit the chair the child was huddled against him, clinging to his sweater.

"Oh, dear," Bilbo muttered. He had not expecting this evening to end with an orphan sutured to his side. "This is … well, I suppose if it makes you feel better."

He wriggled uncomfortably and tapped his fingers on the armrest. Just out of reach, his mug of tea slowly chilled. Supper was a necessity, but moving was clearly no longer an option. Sighing, Bilbo leaned his head back and resigned himself to a long night.

He hoped the snow would clear by morning.

* * *

**A.N. **_According to the proper timeline, Bilbo's parents were both alive until he was 36 and 44 respectively (His father died first, and his mother died seven years before the Quest.)_

_All things considering, that does make for a tricky plotline (just like having a Thorin who is older than Balin and everyone else in the company). Hence, like many authors, I have quietly disposed of Bilbo's parents and you shall not be seeing them in this fic._


	2. This World That He Sees

**A.N.** Warning for a few brief details on giving birth. I know scenes of the kind are uncomfortable for some readers.

* * *

_Her first marriage was arranged by necessity. Kríli son of Dríli was much older than Dís, but he was an upstanding goldsmith, with a wild mane as glorious as the metal he crafted and a purse brimming over with promises for a stable future. __Kríli had a fortune, while __Dís had __little hope without a dowry.__ The marriage ceremony was brief and her future was secured._

_Two sons she bore __Kríli__; one with hair as silken gold as his father's. Fíli, he was named, after Kríli's grandfather. He took pride in his son and boasted how Fíli's hands would soon shape gold like strands of fine hair between his fingertips._

_Dís wanted more for her child._

_She buried the longing deep inside her, urging herself to forget Erebor's halls. Fíli would be a goldsmith by trade: arrogant and distracted by his art. He would make a poor prince._

_The day Kríli clutched his chest and fell to the stone was the day that Dís fainted, weak and nauseous, and she realized she was pregnant again._

_Kíli was nothing like his father. Raven hair like his mother's offset dark brown eyes that screamed to Dís that Frerin was still alive. She kissed his feathery hair and wept, forcing herself to remember happier times._

_Thorin looked after her after Kríli's death. He raised her sons as princes, teaching them to be more than common, wealth hoarding smelters. He was an ordinary blacksmith, poor in comparison to Kríli, but Thorin regarded Fíli and Kíli like they were his entire world wrapped into innocent smiles and glowing eyes._

_He had sworn he would do anything for Dís._

_When she stumbled into _him_ again, the son of Fundin who had watched her silently for years, who had carried her from dragon ash and guarded her on the journey to Ered Luin, Dís made no hesitation in asking Thorin's blessing. It was unheard of for a Dwarf to marry again, but Thorin looked at the life rekindled in Dís' eyes and the adoration in Dwalin's, and he bade them go._

_"Protect her. Cherish her. Love her." Make the light shine in her eyes again._

_And for years, there was nothing but life. There were arguments – sharp-tongued Dís staged against a warrior accustomed to taking his own orders – and there were scandalous rumors and flippant remarks when they walked through the square with Fíli and Kíli tagging behind, but there was fulfillment in their clasped hands, destined to be one forever._

_The second time, Dís married for love._

_Love she found, and she thought her joy would never end._

_But when the dark winter's night came and her swollen belly gave way to a flood of water; when a terrified Kíli paced in the other room – too young to accept that his mother could not withstand another child, and too old to be hushed with lies that she would surely survive the night – then Dís knew her joy was destined to be cruelly severed._

_Azanulbizar._

_One hundred years had passed to the day, when Frerin had been lost and Dís' childhood had ended. Three months too early, the child tore from her body and she lay gasping, waiting for the wail of her newborn son._

_Silence._

_Thorin held her while she screamed. Fíli rushed inside with the midwife, the storm having held them back a moment too late. In the other room, Kíli sank into a chair and buried his head in his hands, despair clouding his bright world for the first time._

_Dwalin wept in silence, drying off the tiny form of his first and what might have been his only child. Dís' wails, accompanied by the droning comfort of the midwife as she staunched the bleeding, was accented by the chill that hung above all of them this night._

_Azanulbizar._

_Another life taken, along with the thousands already dead. Too many to grieve. One life more._

_Until in Dwalin's gentle hands, one choked breath was drawn, then another._

_There was no other name destined for him. Dís named him after her brother._

* * *

Bilbo woke with a crick in his neck and a child drooling on his sweater. The little one's hands were still tangled in the soft fabric, and they only tightened when Bilbo tried to dislodge himself.

"Bother it all," Bilbo muttered. The coals must be stoked and water must be heated for tea. The storm rattled the shutters, promising another day of ice and cold. Weeks might pass before the paths were open.

"I suppose I _am_ glad you are not out there," Bilbo said to the sleeping child, "But what am I going to do with you?"

First things first; tea and warmth. Carefully Bilbo extricated the curled fingers, cringing every time the child stirred. "Don't wake, don't wake." Grabbing a throw, he sprang upright and puddled it under the child's head. Bronze hair sifted on the makeshift pillow and the child snuffled, then curled into the knitting and slept on.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Bilbo tiptoed to the pantry and set about preparing breakfast. His stomach growled from neglect and he thought wistfully of the cod he had planned for the night before. Nothing to be done for that now; supper was long past and poached eggs would make a suitable breakfast.

The child stirred by the time the eggs were boiled and potatoes grilled. He searched the room in distress, looking a comic sight with his small feet, overalls and a shirt that was too wide in the girth.

"Good morning," Bilbo said conversationally. "Sleep well? … No? …. I'm sorry, I can't understand what you're saying when you're just _looking _at me."

The child's eyes narrowed and he stared at his hands, curling them into some sort of gesture before letting them fall into his lap again.

"All right, if you must hold your tongue." Scooping an egg onto the potatoes, Bilbo grabbed two plates and set one on the side table by his armchair. "I'll let you sit where you like this time, but in the future meals are to be eaten at the table."

Perplexed, the child poked at the jiggling egg with his spoon. His eyes widened in alarm and he carefully pushed it to the far side of the plate before scooping a potato into his mouth. Searching with his tongue, he tested the flavor and finally deemed it palatable.

"Well, at least you're eating," Bilbo muttered around his tea. Indeed, the potatoes vanished quickly and the boy resumed his inspection of the room. "Are we on speaking terms, now? Can you even speak?"

The boy gave another futile attempt at twisting his hands and sighed.

"Writing, then?" Bilbo suggested. "I'd at least like a name."

The child's eyes brightened and he twisted around, searching the room. He chattered a word Bilbo could not understand, glowered when he was misunderstood, and then launched himself onto the floor. Spindly legs collapsed and he floundered, shakily clinging to the wall until his feet righted themselves.

"Wait, hold on!" Bilbo called, wiping his mouth and standing quickly as the child bolted down the hall. "Are you injured? There will be _no_ running in the halls, now…. Are you all right?"

Eagerly the boy grabbed his shirt from the heap on the floor. Bilbo heard his mother's voice scolding him for not laying them out to dry properly overnight.

Chattering again, his voice high pitched as a thrush's, the child held out his shirt and pointed to a tag sewn on the outside. Embroidered writing that Bilbo recognized as the Dwarven language filled the top, while underneath it read the Westron script,

_"If you have found this child lost (again), his name is Frerin. Please return him to Fíli and Kíli. Our respective apologies for all damages or inconveniences caused."_

"A Dwarf?" Bilbo realized. "But you would have to have passed through Bree, then."

"Dwaf!" Frerin cried enthusiastically, pointing to himself. "Dwaf! Khazâd!"

"Khazâd?" Bilbo repeated, recognizing the word. He sighed. "Well, this is going to be more difficult. Where did you lose your parents? Parents? Do you know the word…?"

"Amad," Frerin whispered listlessly. His eyes filled with tears and he buried his head in Bilbo's sweater.

"Oh, dear." A lost Dwarf and a motherless one, no less. Hastily Bilbo studied the slanted embroidery. "What about this 'Fíli and Kíli' then? Are they family?"

Frerin's head lashed up. "Kífí!" he shouted, clapping his hands.

"Kífí? All right, what about Kífí? Do you know where to find him?" Or her... Bilbo wasn't quite sure what to expect.

"Kífí?" Frerin looked around the room as though hoping his friend would materialize. Searching eyes implored Bilbo once more. "Kífí?"

"I … don't think he's here, lad," Bilbo said compassionately. How could he explain to a child that his family might well be dead, frozen in the snow or devoured by wolves?

Frerin's expression became distant, as though he had already known his loss. Desperately he tapped Bilbo's leg. "Toppit?"

"Top… what are you talking about?"

"Topbit!" Frerin insisted, frustrated tears building in his eyes.

"Top – Hobbit?" Bilbo ventured. The child nodded and collapsed against his leg. "Oh … Hobbit. Yes, I am a Hobbit." Gingerly, unsure if the child appreciated touch unless he was the instigator, Bilbo scooped up the Dwarfling and carried him back to the fire. "What is to be done with you, Frerin?"

Hearing his name, Frerin looked up with weary hope. "Toppit," he repeated. "Tobbit."

"Hobbit," Bilbo corrected instinctively. He paused and shrugged. "Actually, my name is Bilbo."

Dark eye searched him before Frerin solemnly nodded. "Bihbo."

* * *

**I can write AU, I have written AU, I shall continue to write AU.**

I do ship Dis and Dwalin, and there needed to be a reason why Frerin was born thirty-six years after Kili. And Dwalin makes for an awesome Daddy.

Behold, the reshaping of Tolkein's world.


	3. Magic Has Been Set Free

_He was a fragile child; haunted and wavering. Balin murmured at times that the spirit of the fallen resided in him, like Durin reborn. _

_He was too much like their Frerin. __Birdlike hands with almost translucent skin, thin cheeks and the wasted eyes of a child who had seen the world and found it desperately lacking in love and affection._

_Love and affection was showered on him, from his mother and older brothers to the father who did not belong, but still he remained silent._

"_It's not natural," Oin murmured to Dwalin when they thought Dís could not hear. "Something left over from the early birth, no doubt."_

_Even Fíli had spoken his first words by the time he was four. Kíli, whose brightness countered his small stature, had been chattering in full sentences._

_Frerin watched._

"_Come on, one step at a time." Kíli's cheerfulness never wavered; not when he gave up waiting for Frerin to walk and taught him himself; not when he spoke for hours with no recognition that he had been heard. He was thirty-six years older than Frerin – old enough to be helping in the forge all day instead of babysitting his brother – but he never tired of teasing out that shy, hesitant smile. _

"_He's not going to stop, you know," Fíli warned soon afterwards, when Frerin began to follow them everywhere, toddling on flimsy legs and scraping new callouses into his palms. "Sooner or late he's going to get lost."_

_Two days later, the search began. Again. And again. Dwalin fashioned a harness for the child so that Dís would not lose him when she went to market. Within a week Frerin had learned how to dismantle the straps behind his back.__He was eerily clever._

"_Kífí!" By the time he was six, wobbly legged and bright eyed, with thick callouses covering his hands from many falls, he was sneaking into the forges, gathering bits of discarded metal to play with in a shadowed corner. As long as his brothers were nearby, he seemed content._

_Dís was perfectly frazzled. "You're a picky eater, and now you're a runaway!" she scolded often. "What did I do to make you so unhappy at home?"_

"_Amad," Frerin said with a happy sigh, pillowing his head on her shoulder. _

_The next day he was found at the docks, staring into the mist like a seafarer longing for home. Fíli and Kíli tried their own tactic, enlisting their mother's help to have a proper name tag sewn into all of Frerin's clothes. It worked for the most part – a friendly neighbor or shopkeeper was always happy to return the lost bairn. At times he went missing entirely, however, and a frantic search followed until he was found curled under the bed or in a cupboard. _

_The hiding worried Dís. It seemed that her son was always running, fearful of something that would tear apart his safe world. She woke nightly from his screams, racing out to find him plastered against the outer door, only protected from the cold and rain because of the lock he could not reach. _

_"Simple nightmares," Oin deduced. "He'll outgrow them in time. Has he seen any cause for distress in town?"_

"_None," Dís whispered. He was born violently, and his life carried out that trauma. _

_The dreaded day came when Kíli forgot to bolt the door behind him. When the search began at suppertime, they realized Frerin's boots had vanished. _

_The stricken look on Kíli's face told Dís everything. Her son would never forgive himself._

* * *

Three weeks after the child had been found under Bilbo's window, the storm ended. Bilbo dared venture a trip to the market. He bundled Frerin tightly in warm cap and gloves before carrying the child into the treacherous, winter stricken land.

"Tho!" Frerin tried, pointing to the crunchy layer.

"Snow," Bilbo asserted.

"Snowin?"

"Yes, we were snowed in rather badly," Bilbo agreed. He looked back, hoping he would be able to find his hole again.

Frerin scowled and shook his head. "Snowin. S-th-no-win."

"Snowing? No, not now. It's a clear sky, see?"

Sighing, Frerin patted his chin and cheek and repeated, "Snowin."

"I don't... I don't understand." Snow was snow and snow-in either meant that it was snowing or home had been buried under white powder.

Frowning fiercely, Frerin gave up. He pointed ahead. "Tow?"

"Town. I hope you mean 'town.'"

"Tow-_nah_." Frerin nodded.

"Yes, that is the town ahead," Bilbo affirmed. "Do you recognize it, Frerin?"

The child cocked his head and shrugged. "Tow-nah."

Bilbo sighed, preparing himself for a long walk. Cooped inside for three weeks, he was positive he had learned all there was to know about Frerin. The Dwarfling appreciated dark corners, balls of twine that he used to tie _everything_ in the house into odd shapes and contraptions, a cup of syrupy sweet tea just after waking, and a long afternoon nap that could never be rudely interrupted by invitations to tea. He stared at books for hours, trying new Westron words while Bilbo read aloud. Khuzdul he appeared to read fairly well. The odd hand gestures and curling fingers were surely another language of their own.

He just couldn't seem to speak it.

"Hullo, Mister Baggins!" Old Farmer Benton waved merrily, hoisting a basket of frozen turnips over a snow drift. "Found these hiding in the back of my garden. They're still fine for a stew. Where are you off to?"

"Town," Bilbo said. He kicked his feet, his toes a little numb. "I'm looking for a Dwarf party. This little one turned up on my doorstep a few weeks ago. I'm not sure who he belongs to."

"Dwarves in the Shire?" Farmer Benton looked alarmed. "Can't say I've seen them myself. Beastly souls, I hear. Better stay clear of them."

"Yes, well…" Bilbo nodded pointedly at Frerin. "If you should chance upon any, let me know."

"Of course," Farmer Benton agreed. "Good luck, Mister Baggins!"

Frerin looked up worriedly, his arms twining a little more securely around Bilbo's neck. "Bihbo?"

"Oh, come now," Bilbo assured, "I'm sure not all Dwarves can be taken that seriously. But it is true; we don't often see them around here."

Occasionally, when spring beamed warm and bright and the trading wagons pulled in, a few Dwarves could be seen bartering metal beads or leather for food supplies and cloth. Such occasions were rare, however, and most folk were pleased to see them go.

Bilbo hoped they had chosen to linger in the market square today.

"Dwarves in these parts? I saw them not a month ago." The tailor shuddered and pointed to the windy road. "A whole company. Families; young'uns…"

Dread wound around Bilbo's heart. "Frerin, why don't you go buy yourself a toy," he urged, pressing a coin into the child's palm and prodding him towards the whittler's stand. Warily, his eyes dark with understanding, Frerin did as he was told.

"Tell me what happened to them," Bilbo said quietly.

The tailor glanced at Frerin sympathetically. "They're gone. Wolves ratted out the lot. Nothing salvageable. No survivors."

Bilbo closed his eyes, bile rising in his throat.

"If the child needs a home, you can ask the Fate Reader down the road," the tailor offered. "Odd trade, that one has, but she'll look after him well. Lost one of her own young'uns to fever not long ago. She'll take good care of him."

"Perhaps your right," Bilbo acceded. "He does need a mother…."

Frerin turned around, his cheeks dimpling in a smile as he held a dragon up for Bilbo to see. Something unpleasant clogged Bilbo's throat and he coughed into his fist.

"Actually, I think I'd better wait a bit – just to see if his real kin show up. Perhaps he has an uncle or someone looking for him."

"If you wish." The tailor shrugged.

"Come on, Frerin," Bilbo called, holding out his hand for the little one.

"Amad?" Frerin whispered excitedly.

The lump tried to swallow his voice. "Um, not yet," Bilbo said. "We'll keep searching, all right?"

Frerin nodded jauntily and skipped ahead of Bilbo. His foot hitched mid-air, almost like it was caught on an unseen rope, and he tumbled soundlessly.

"Frerin!" Bilbo ran to crouch beside the child, hissing at the lanced palms. "Are you all right?"

Tears swept down the lad's cheeks and he bravely wiped them away. "Hurt," he said miserably, holding out his hands.

"Yes indeed, it is," Bilbo agreed, pulling a handkerchief out to staunch the wounds. They were small scrapes, thankfully, with only a few bits of gravel digging under the skin. "Nothing serious, I believe – you'll be good as new in no time."

Frerin studied his palms closely, a little too fascinated for Bilbo's liking, and then nodded in agreement. "Okay."

"Have you … really… learned to judge your own injuries?" Bilbo wondered. The thought didn't comfort him at all.


	4. Offering the Wings to Fly

**A.N.** Down to the inevitable discussion of "age issues". According to Tolkien, Dwarves reach their "adult appearance" by 40. They are considered ready for war in their 30's. They generally look the same age between 40-240, and only look aged 10 years before they die (which means half the company will be dead in less than ten years).

Okay, obviously we're skipping that last bit. Balancing the movie and book ages can be a little tedious, since Kili looks like a "tweenager" and sometimes acts the same, but the truth is - he's considered one of Thorin's best warriors for a reason. My take on Dwarves in this fic is that they indeed grow slower than Men, but by thirty they should have all their cognitive abilities in order.

* * *

_(TA 2906. Frerin is 7 years old)_

_The first Westron word Dís taught her son was "hurt." He spoke in clumsy Khuzdul when he chose to, and he tried signing in Iglishmêk, but he never mentioned the things he needed most. _

_Hunger. He knew when food was there, and when it wasn't set out he didn't come looking._

_Sleep. If Thorin was the one coaching his reading, he stared at the pages with burning red eyes until Dís reminded her brother of the time._

_Pain. __It seemed nonexistent in his little world. The first time Kíli noticed was when Frerin had fallen and skinned both knees, and then walked home without a word to his troubles. Incidences added up, until Dís taught her son to say "hurt" whenever blood was involved._

_He never seemed to notice pain during his play, but sometimes at night she heard him scream like he was remembering agony. It frightened her out of her wits._

"_He is merely a … slow learning child," Oin assured. "He will learn to judge for himself in time."_

"_It's not right." Kíli voiced his worry when they were alone. "I always looked for Fíli when I was hurt."_

"_You and Fíli were very close," Dís remembered, "And you are much older than Frerin."_

_All the same, she paced often during the night, comforting her boy after a terror and wondering what was wrong with him._

_Dwalin accidentally solved the matter of the nightmares. He fell asleep in the chair one night, waiting for Dís to return from a healer. Frerin slumped against his Adad, thumb jammed securely in his mouth, and slept soundly the entire night._

_The child craved touch. Fíli began to take his turn, pacing with Frerin in his arms and reciting his lessons while he fought insomnia. Kíli took the opportunity for his own personal nap time, catching a few hours in the afternoon while Frerin snored. Dís welcomed the extra sleep at night. She left her boys to soothe their youngest sibling, watching their bold hearts soften with a gentleness Kríli would have scorned, and treasured the sickly boy who was frightened of his own shadow._

_Only Thorin could not hold him. _

_For whatever reason, Frerin shied from his Uncle's touch. His face strained whenever he heard a raised voice, and sometimes he ducked away from the large hands that were raised to protect him. Perhaps it was the commander in Thorin, who goaded his nephews to train harder and faster, that drove timid Frerin away. _

_Thorin could not understand it, and it pained him every time his kindness was rejected. Dís saw the loss jolt him over and over. Eventually Thorin left Frerin to himself, but he was always watching, ready to catch the child if he tumbled._

_Sometimes, when the winter nights grew darkest and Frerin's nightmares dragged for weeks, Dís imagined it was Thorin's own fault and his brother's tortured spirit haunted him through his nephew. She hurriedly shook away the cruel thoughts, for Thorin was plagued with regret and nothing could rectify the past._

_She wished her son had given him that second chance._

* * *

"What have you done to that child?"

Neither Lobelia's face nor her sharp tongue was welcome. Bilbo swiveled on his heel, prepared to politely shoo her away from Frerin.

The child's face glowed. "Amadnamad! Amadnamad!"

He raced to Lobelia and flung his arms around her legs, beaming as though he had found his long lost kin. "Amadnamad!"

"What – what is this - this - Well, see it for yourself, Bilbo Baggins! He is in your custody, after all. What do you have to say for him?"

"I think he… thinks you're his aunt," Bilbo said uncertainly.

Frerin bounced excitedly, grabbing for Lobelia's dark curls. "Amadnamad!"

"I never!" She huffed in disdain, but a hand touched her heart as though somehow the ray of sunlight had broken through. "And where is the child's mother, that he should carry on in such a way?"

"Ah…" Bilbo dropped his voice to a faint whisper, "There might not be one."

Lobelia's mouth pinched in a frown. "Poor thing." She patted Frerin's head dismissively and carefully skirted around him. "Better take him in to town. Someone will pick him up sooner or later."

"Thank you, Lobelia." Bilbo rolled his eyes. "That is wonderful advice for a child who just worshiped the ground you walked on."

Frerin backed away, twisting his gloves in his hands. For a moment he looked too old; too experienced with rejection.

Lobelia's face screwed up as though she had found a bug in her lemonade. "Well, I … I never meant to hurt the lad. All I said was –"

"You've made your point very clear, Lobelia," Bilbo snapped. He scooped up Frerin and adjusted the cap more firmly around his ears. "Good day."

Frerin tucked his head into Bilbo's neck, sniffling into the Hobbit's collar. "Nod Amadnamad?"

"No, Frerin." Bilbo sighed. "I'm afraid she's not Amadnamad at all."

* * *

The storms locked them inside for another six weeks. Food that had been aplenty now cost more than a winter coat. Bilbo's larder shrunk beyond the not-quite-enough, and now threatened the borders of very-much-less. He was grateful that Frerin was not a Hobbit lad, for he ate only when he was hungry (which was not often at all), and if the food was not to his liking, he seemed quite content to wait until something more interesting showed up.

"A proper Hobbit your age would have inhaled half the pantry by now," Bilbo commented as he plopped a bowl of porridge in front of Frerin.

The Dwarfling sniffed the porridge dubiously, stuck out his tongue for a sticky taste, and decided enough honey was swirled into the mixture to make it edible.

"You know, I've never seen anything … quite like you," Bilbo said as he sat down with his own (much fuller) bowl. "I've seen Dwarves before – great, bearded folk with axes twice the size of their arms..."

He had expected Dwarf children to be stockier as well. Perhaps they were more like children of Men when they were younger, or perhaps Frerin was just very, very small.

"But you… you don't care much for battle, do you?"

Frerin's spoon yanked upright, splattering porridge against the wall. He stared at Bilbo in terror, gasping in shallow spurts.

"Oh, my ... No – no need to panic. It was just a question." Bilbo clapped a hand over his mouth, wondering for the first time how much Frerin had seen. "You … you saw them … fighting, didn't you? Your family?"

A jerky nod. The child's whole frame trembled, sending his cup clattering across the table.

"Well, this won't … This just won't do," Bilbo said, anxiously looking for a way to repair the damage. Seeing no alternative, he gingerly scooped the child up and rocked him in the way his own mother had done when he was a child.

Frerin seemed content with burying his head in Bilbo's shoulder. "Nod deah, nod deah," he whispered frantically.

"I know. I know." Bilbo wished he could assure the child that his parents were indeed alive. All he could do was scold his impetuous tongue and try to calm the stricken Dwarfling.

"Kíkí," Frerin called lonesomely. "Fía."

"I know," Bilbo said soothingly. "You miss them."

"Snow… Snow…" The last word was a breathless sob, as though Frerin dared not speak the name. Bilbo began to realize that 'Snow' might be a person, and not just an endless flurry of white.

"They'll find you. You'll see." It was an unkind lie he was telling the child, for there was a good chance Frerin's family would never be found at all. Still, it clenched Bilbo's heart to hear the desperate whispering, and he had to offer some form of comfort.

"Snow," Frerin gasped, fear and loss gripping that single word.

"Wherever they are, we'll find them," Bilbo promised. If only to give the child closure, he would learn what had happened to his parents.

The thought was troubling. With a start, Bilbo realized he had grown used to having Frerin around.

* * *

**Trivia Bit**: Lobelia is actually 28 years younger than Bilbo. I felt free to slip her in earlier because her "movie version" is too old to have just entered the "irresponsible tweens." (She wouldn't be a Sackville-Baggins if she hadn't married Lotho - ergo, she is old enough in BOFA to have married and therefore must be closer in age to Bilbo.)


	5. Childhood Dreams Are Always New

_It was Frerin who inadvertently taught Kíli his Khuzdul. He caught onto the language quicker, abandoning all attempts at Westron and failing miserably at Iglishmêk. Since the only stories Frerin wanted to hear were in the Dwarven tongue, Kíli was forced to stumble through the lessons he had neglected during his studies. Watching him pour over the texts, clumsily wading through histories and legends, made Dís ponder the idea of making Frerin his brother's official tutor. She laughed at the thought and contented herself with listening to Kíli labor over his native language with the enthusiasm he had lost since Fíli stopped teaching him._

_Sometimes it seemed Kíli had the most patience for Frerin, but even he reached his limits. _

"_Frerin, no! Stay away from the pony!" _

"_Frerin, no! Don't touch that!" _

"_Frerin, no! Drop that before you burn yourself!"_

_Each rebuke earned a sudden halt and a quivering chin, which promptly resulted in Kíli depositing his brother in Fíli's arms – or whoever happened to be around, for that matter – until he could look at Frerin without the bairn dissolving. He could endure a scald in the forges and had gained more concussions falling from trees than Bifur had suffered from his caved skull, but he was lost when faced with a child's tears._

"_I don't … I don't know how to fix it," Kíli said helplessly one day. He grabbed an apple slice from the table, watching Dís arrange them over a delicately rolled crust. "I know I shouldn't just leave him alone like that, but I feel so – frustrated! How does Fíli do it?"_

_Dís stilled for a moment, almost seeing her brother's face drawn into the spiced dough. "Your uncle was never one for strong emotions. He felt them, yes." There were times before her marriage when Thorin had cried on her shoulder. "He doesn't know how to emphasize with others, though."_

_Still, Thorin tried. He had been rude and distant in his youth, but now he poured every fiber of his passion into his nephews. They adored him, and he deserved their loyalty. _

"_One day you'll learn how to comfort like Fíli," Dís assured. "Sometimes it takes a bairn of your own to understand."_

_And sometimes those emotions never woke. Kríli had never needed them, and Dís had never thought less of him for it. Not every Dwarf was driven by compassion like Fíli._

_Perhaps it was reaching inside for that empathy he lacked that often drove Kíli to stumble into the house well into the morning, soaked and weary and heart-stricken because his brother was not to be found. There was no corpse. There was no whisper of life. Day after day, Kili's hope died a little more._

_Dís prayed that one day his heart would be whole again. _

_And when she was finished she stared out the window at the winding path, hoping she would look out one day and see Dwalin carrying their son home._

* * *

"No Dwarves in these parts."

"Not since the wolves."

Frerin's heart grew a little more hopeful every time they went to town, and his feet trudge a little more every time they returned. He watched Bilbo reproachfully, knowing there was something hidden from him.

At last Bilbo knew he had no other choice. "Frerin, I need to tell you something…."

He sat the lad down at the table, with a cup of sweet tea and a little cake to bolster his courage. Wishing he had made some for himself, Bilbo said plainly, "I think your family is dead."

A sharp gasp followed as Frerin's pupils dilated. Bilbo rushed to finish.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I had hoped – I hoped the rumors were false, and we would find your family. But Frerin…." Sorrowfully, Bilbo shook his head. "I've asked everyone around. The only Dwarves that came through these parts were killed three months ago."

Desperately Frerin whispered, "Kífí?"

There was, in fact, a Dwarf with that exact name. His belt had been his only identification. Bilbo choked back a sob. "Frerin, I'm so sorry."

Devastated, Frerin stared at the table. Salty tears ran down his face, plopping faster into his tiny hands.

"Here," Bilbo urged, pulling the child into his lap and letting him bury his face in his sweater. He choked back a sob, sharing the little one's pain. "You don't have to cry alone."

Frerin sobbed, aching wails that tore from his lungs and echoed in the small room. He screamed, shouting for Amad, Adad, Fía and Kí and everyone he had held dear. Bilbo imagined the gentle family that had sired this kind, sweet-natured child, and he wept for the unbearable loss.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!"

"Amad," Frerin wailed, rocking back and forth. "Amad!"

* * *

_They were painful months; the searching, the heartbreak, the denial, the forced acceptance. Frerin had vanished. Too often he had ventured near the docks, and so the bottom was dragged and the marshes dug through. Every merchant was questioned. Every wagon was searched for hidden passages. They prepared for the worst, while they prayed they would find him safe and happy among a large, poor family, never having realized he was missed._

_Dís hoped they would find nothing, for then at least then she would have reason to hope, and her child would not be buried with it._

_Eventually the months passed, and the search parties returned to their homes. Only Dwalin and Thorin refused to give up. Kíli drove himself to sickness, and Fíli stared into the fire during the long, lonely nights, clutching his shoulders as though wishing for the bronze head that had rested there for comfort._

_Dís found herself slicing apples one night, cutting the last, smallest apple into tiny bits so that Frerin could eat them wrapped in chewy dough. Her knife slipped and she fell against the table, sobbing as blood trickled from a knick on her finger. It was Kíli who held her – uncertain, detached Kíli – and let her cry on his shoulder until her strength was spent and she had the willpower to dump the entire batch into the goat feed. _

_She never baked with apples again, and Kíli never asked for any._

* * *

The winter months passed and spring still gripped the world in ice. All along the Shire, corpses of starved wolves had been packed into the snow. No one ventured outside without a bow, a thick stone or a heavy kitchen knife.

"There won't be any trip to market today, I'm afraid." Bilbo shifted the curtain and rubbed his arms briskly, vowing to buy Frerin a new coat the next chance he had. The fire was lit only at night now, and the pantry had fallen to only-just-full. Another month of snow, and he would have to ration even Frerin's portions.

Frerin sighed quietly and pulled Bilbo's arm, tugging him down until the lad could leap onto his shoulders. His need for touch had intensified and he could never be alone, even during his afternoon naps. Bilbo feared the constant attention might be ill for him, for surely he must learn how to be alone as he grew older.

Still, he had to remember that Frerin was a very little Dwarf, and a young one at that, and a Dwarfling who had just lost his entire family was entitled to a little extra affection.

Bilbo had just begun to wonder if his world narrowed down to an ice crusted window, a tea kettle and Frerin, when a rap on his door startled him from his reading. Setting the text aside and lifting Frerin from his lap, he pattered to the door and opened it a crack, cautiously peeking outside.

"Well, well, now. Bilbo Baggins. I thought the wolves might have carried you away."

"Gandalf," Bilbo said in delight. "Gandalf the Grey! I thought the frosts would keep you out."

"Almost." Gandalf chuckled lightly. "Though it seems as though you've had your fair share of winter."

"Please, do come in," Bilbo urged, holding out his hands for the wizard's cloak and staff. He examined the twisted wood, half-expecting a swirled dragon to launch from the tip.

"Still looking for Elves and magic?" Gandalf noted. He shut the door hastily and wound his scarf closer about his neck.

"Maybe," Bilbo said wistfully. "Maybe this world could do with a bit more magic." He looked back at the two dark eyes peeking over the table, and then startled as he remembered his manners. "Tea, Mister Gandalf? I have a few biscuits left and some of the old bryar cheese."

"Tea will be fine, thank you," Gandalf said. "And who is this young friend of yours? Not from any Hobbit kin, I suspect."

"No, he's Dwarven," Bilbo said softly. "He … his parents… well…." He nodded out at the snow in explanation.

"Oh. I see." Turning to the boy, Gandalf bent low beside the table and nodded pleasantly. "Well now, lad; you're a long distance from home, no doubt. Why don't you come out and greet an old friend of Master Baggins."

The wizard surely had more magic than could be found in his fireworks, for Frerin eased around the table and approached him with awed curiosity.

"I am Gandalf the Grey," the wizard greeted warmly. "And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"Fwen," the boy whispered. Bilbo tilted his head, trying to remember if Frerin had ever spoken his own name.

"Fuíen?" Gandalf estimated. "A fine, strong name. That is the Firebeard blood in you."

"Actually, it's Frerin," Bilbo corrected. He turned to grab the biscuits, missing the tension in Gandalf's stance as he rose.

"Frerin? That is not a common name."

"I wouldn't know," Bilbo said truthfully. "I've searched all of my books, and the name I've seen most often is 'Durin.'"

"Frerin would be recorded far less than Durin," Gandalf rumbled. He studied the child with more curiosity than a name required, lifting the thatch of bronze hair to scrutinize the worried brown eyes. "Well. You _have_ traveled a long ways."

Bilbo faltered, the plate of biscuits landing on the table with a clatter. "You know him?"

"I did," Gandalf said slowly. "A long time ago."

Frerin swayed nervously, squeezing his hands until Bilbo drew close enough that he could duck behind the Hobbit's leg.

"There's no need to be frightened, Frerin," Gandalf assured. "I will not tear you from your guardian."

"Do you … Did you know his family?" Bilbo asked softly.

Snapping grey brows rose as Gandalf said casually, "I knew his father very well. It was a tragedy that could well have been avoided."

"Go play in the other room," Bilbo told Frerin quickly, pressing a biscuit into his hand. Nodding sharply, Frerin fled. His feet caught beneath him and he stumbled, clumping on until the door to his room slammed shut.

"Bilbo, you have no idea what kind of child you are raising," Gandalf warned. "Are you prepared for this?"

"What – Look, he's just a kid," Bilbo reasoned. "He lost his entire family. Of course I'm not prepared for this. I'm not prepared for anything! But what else can I do? Toss him outside? He has no one else to look after him."

"Has he had nightmares?" Gandalf interrogated, ignoring the Hobbit's plight. "Phantom pain? Illusions that frighten him?"

"What… no!" Bilbo shook his head, aghast at the suggestion. "Well, nightmares – yes. Every child does."

"How terrible?"

"I don't see how this –"

"Answer the question, Bilbo."

Sighing, Bilbo allotted, "Rather violent. He wakes screaming almost every night. I find him thrashing sometimes, trying to escape… something."

Gandalf crouched beside him, his face drawn with compassion. "Frerin is no ordinary child. He is what you might call 'a reborn'. Like Durin the Deathless, he has been given a second chance at life."

"A second chance at …. What are you saying?"

"His name was Frerin before," Gandalf said gently. "I knew his family. He … he died, Bilbo, in another life. It was a terrible… terrible death. I would not burden you with details. Know this; his other life will haunt him, until he can understand his past and how it pertains to his future. He will be lost and confused. He will be frightened – terrified of the smallest things. Are you prepared to guide him through this?"

"A – Another life?" Bilbo said in disbelief. "Do Dwarves always return as children?"

"Only those Mahal has graced with renewed life," Gandalf said. "For such, it is a curse as much as a blessing. Can you take care of him, Bilbo? Do not say yes, unless you are absolutely certain."

Gaping, Bilbo looked back at the closed door. "Are you telling me that _that child_ was killed, and everything he endured is racing through his head right now?"

"I do not know for sure," Gandalf said, "Only that his memories will return over time."

Bilbo gusted a sigh, folded his arms, and shook his head. "Out of the question."

"What will you do with him, then?" Gandalf asked, disappointment dropping his tone.

"Do – why, raise him of course! You think I'm going to throw him out with a lot of Dwarves, now?" Bilbo's mouth pressed in a thin line. "But I won't force him to remember anything. He's Frerin. That's all I care about."

Gandalf nodded slowly. "Then perhaps… for the time… you are the family he needs."

Bilbo couldn't help but feel bolstered by those words.

"I think this will be good for you, Bilbo Baggins," Gandalf decided, finally retrieving his cup of tea. "It will be good for him, for that matter…. And certainly most amusing for me."


	6. At Once the World Doesn't Seem the Same

_His hands were the one thing Frerin fussed over constantly. They had to be clean, the nails had to be trimmed smooth and short, and while falling and bruising his palms was all right, a single knick with a sharp blade sent him into a fit of panic. _

"_I told you, he's a gentle child," Dís argued when Dwalin insisted that any lad should have a dagger. "Frerin doesn't need a weapon."_

"_He runs off on his own day after day, __Dís__. He has to protect himself somehow."_

_Dís frowned sharply and refused to answer. Frerin was a child of innocence and laughter. He had won the hearts of all the traders in Ered Luin, and she never feared they would harm him._

_But there was always the thought of that one stranger who would find sadistic pleasure in hurting a child. _

"_Do what you like," Dís said in a low voice. "Only, do not scold him if he comes to me for refuge."_

"_Dís, you can't mother him all the time. Sooner or later he has to –"_

"_Has to what? Die in battle like Frerin?"_

_Had she taken her knife and struck his heart, Dwalin could not have looked more pained. Dís shook her head in swift apology._

"_I never blamed you, Dwalin."_

"_You know I would never allow Frerin to be hurt," Dwalin said raggedly. "He's my son."_

"_I know." Dís smiled wanly. "There is no one I would trust more."_

_She watched Frerin's lessons all the same, waiting for that first tear before calling an early lunch. He was too fragile for her liking. Those bird-like hands could barely hold a quill, let alone a sword. _

"_Kíli was frailer when he was that age," Thorin reminded her. "Frerin will outgrow it."_

"_Kíli was never that delicate." Dís tried to remember her brother, wondering if he had been as flimsy and tenuous in his boyhood. _

"_Frerin was." Thorin brushed alongside her, sensing her thoughts as they watched Bofur toss a leather ball to the tiny bairn. _

_Dís watched Thorin's eyes, reading the conflict and guilt as he tried vainly to reforge the past._

"_You should read to him more often, you know."_

_Jolted out of his thoughts, Thorin looked to her in question._

"_Read to him," Dís insisted. "Don't use the time to make him to learn his letters. Just spend some time with him, like you did with Fíli after his father died."_

_Thorin nodded slowly, neither accepting nor refuting her advice. _

_Later that evening Dís saw him relaxed in his chair by the fire, an old text in his hands and a sleepy toddler in his lap. His baritone voice lulled her just like it had in Erebor, when she was fussy and unable to sleep. She watched Frerin's eyes shutter closed, one hand fisted in Thorin's sleeve._

_It was little surprise to her when Frerin's first word was "Snowin."_

* * *

Summer broke winter's curse in a glorious wave of sunlight. The snow melted and the roof leaked abominably for days, and three Hobbit lads and lasses were nearly lost in the overflow of the Brandywine. (Thankfully no one was hurt, but from then on Bilbo made certain to keep Frerin close whenever they neared the river.) For weeks afterwards the Shire was little more than a bog. The sun continued to blaze at its full strength, until at last the fields finally stopped steaming. By the time Bilbo had pared the last potato in his stores he deemed it safe to walk to the market.

"All right, then," Bilbo said around the list clenched in his teeth. He pulled on a light jacket, prepared to make an adventure out of the trip. "Apples, cabbages, sausages, new boots for you, potatoes, onions, flour…." He unfolded the lengthy paper and frowned. "I do hope there will be _anything_ in the market after that frost."

"Mak?" Frerin piped in. He fussed with his hair, glaring when he realized Bilbo had let it tangle under the hood.

"Mak? All right, it's your usual guessing game, isn't it? It's not market – I've heard you use 'makah' before." Bilbo stroked his chin, wishing Frerin would learn to write faster. "I'm going to guess milk, because you certainly could use some."

Frerin giggled and clapped his hands. He held out his hand for Bilbo's, and the Hobbit noted with familiar unease how his own hand engulfed the little one's. _A small child._

Bilbo was certain this wasn't normal for Dwarves.

"All right, then," he said with a brisk nod. "You have your hat, your coat, your boots.… Did you remember your stockings?"

Frerin tossed up one leg, showing off the knitting under his trousers.

"Very good," Bilbo praised him. "Off we go, then."

It was odd to think that he used to make these trips alone, finishing as quickly as possible just in case there was a bard or minstrel visiting town. Bilbo wondered if Frerin would also like to hear their stories.

"Ah, Mister Baggins!" Farmer Benton called. He was covered with dust and the sweat of satisfying labor. "Just finished planting the pumpkins and squash. It'll be a poor season, but the earth will tend us one more year."

"Good to see you, Mister Benton," Bilbo greeted cheerfully. "I'm on my way to market now. I don't suppose you have any parsnips left in your stores?"

Farmer Benton ruefully shook his head. "Between the frost and the damp rot, we've had all the bad luck we can handle. But the sun's awake, and she'll not abandon us by autumn."

He looked down at Frerin and frowned in disapproval. "Bilbo, lad, I thought you'd found a good home for the young'un."

"Actually, he … doesn't really have a home," Bilbo said uneasily. "Not anymore."

Farmer Benton eyed him skeptically. "Miss Wilma Cottons has a son of her own. Fine, upstanding lad, that Tolman. They've room in the family for one more."

"What? I'm not – I'm not giving Frerin away," Bilbo said with quiet insistence. "I've sworn to take care of him."

"Bilbo." Farmer Benton looked at him with dubious concern. "You're barely a lad yourself. I know you've been lonely since your mother – heaven rest her soul – passed on, but you're not ready for the responsibilities of a parent. Give it a few years. Enjoy your youth! Chase after those Elves you're always pined after."

He regarded Bilbo with stern rebuke. "Give the boy to someone who can look after him."

Biting down a retort, Bilbo scooped up Frerin and settled the child on his hip. "Thank you for your advice. If you will excuse me, Frerin and I are late for the market."

He walked off briskly, muttering all the things he would have liked to have said to Farmer Benton if he had been a few years younger and a bit more impertinent.

They were stopped five more times along the way, by cooing mothers and aged doters who found the fairylike Dwarf to be enchanting. One piece of advice they all shared with Bilbo: find a proper family for the orphan's sake.

Sighing quietly, Bilbo rounded the corner of the market and mustered a smile for Frerin. "What do you think, Frerin? Would you rather live in a comfortable, exciting family like Wilma Cottons'?"

Frerin shook his head frantically and flung his arms around the Hobbit's neck. "Bihbo."

"Well, that decides it, then." Mustering his resolve, Bilbo nodded crisply. "You have a family, and no one need tell you that you are out of place."

In that case, he would have to learn how to properly raise a Dwarf child. "I wonder what manner of schooling you've had."

That could be dealt with later, Bilbo decided. For now he had a daunting list to tend to. Clothes and pantry stuffs and herbs and boots quickly emptied his sturdy purse. A toy for Frerin (who was entranced by the concept of kites), a brush for the long, flossy hair (which was a pain really, as it tangled in everything and was always falling into the child's eyes), soap that smelled like a new spring morning (perhaps less protests to bath time now, as this seemed to be Frerin's only criticism), little booklets for arithmetic and letters, a new shovel for the garden (he would have to see what seeds were still salvageable), and a new set of dishware to ensure Frerin wouldn't drop another of his mother's plates. (That had been a disaster involving a cut foot, many tears and a lost heirloom, and Bilbo had no care to repeat it.)

After all of this, Bilbo wished he had brought a wheelbarrow with him instead of a knapsack. Frerin found the remedy to be rather simple.

Trundling home with a brand new wheelbarrow that he did not need, and a stack of precariously piled purchases upon which a Dwarfling had perched himself with perfect balance, Bilbo could only reminisce that this is _not_ how he had planned his day.

"You know, my life used to be rather ordinary." He supposed he was talking to Frerin, but since the child was occupied with pointing out random objects in lisped Khuzdul, perhaps Bilbo was talking to the frog painted on his kite instead. "I had a schedule, a clean house, a proper bedtime, and I always knew _exactly_ what was for dinner and how much would be eaten."

The last thought earned Frerin a half-hearted glare. "Now I have to deal with leftovers, a cranky four year old who missed his nap, broken glass all over my nice kitchen floor, and impromptu trips to the market. And you…" he was definitely addressing the frog now, "… Just sit there and stare at me like I'm off to join the travelling circus and hunt for Elves."

The frog offered no remark, which Bilbo took to mean it had been properly scolded and would strive to do better. He looked up and grimaced when he met Frerin's solemn, eerily comprehensive gaze.

"All right, how long have you been listening?"

Frerin looked down at the frog and back, then raised his eyebrows.

"No, I'm not crazy," Bilbo defended himself. "The only insanity here is that I bought a frog kite for a child who likes dragons."

Frerin grinned wryly and swiveled around so that his off-key babbling could be centered on Bilbo. Amused, Bilbo wondered if the child had always prattled on at home. It was the first time he had heard so many words in one morning.

"Well! There you are! And here I walked all the way to Bag End and back looking for you!"

Bilbo sighed. "Thus ends a perfectly good morning. Yes, Lobelia, what do you want?"

Sniffing at her cousin, Lobelia looked down at the assortment of food and supplies. "Slim pickings this year, _Mister_ Baggins. I shouldn't be surprised that you bribed every grocer to give you the best of the market. Heaven knows enough poor folk –"

"What is it that you want, Lobelia?" Bilbo interrupted crossly. "I doubt you traveled all the way to Bag End and back just to criticize my groceries."

"Criticize? What are you accusing me of!" Curling her nose at Bilbo, Lobelia flipped the cover from her basket and all but shoved it into Frerin's arms. "I merely wanted to see for myself if you were properly caring for the child. If you had heard the rumors I have, why, your ears would positively curdle with shame!"

Bilbo gaped a moment, looking from the tea cakes to Lobelia's snide face. "You … Are you giving a present to Frerin?"

"And why should I not? Even if you find evidence to refute Farmer Benton's claims, you cannot deny that you have been starving that poor child."

"Starving him?" Bilbo said, aghast. "You think I'm neglecting Frerin?"

"Don't be so cross, I'm merely stating what I heard." Harrumphing, Lobelia tasted one of the small cakes herself, proving to Frerin that they were indeed delicious. Bilbo stared at her and shook his head.

"You actually like him, don't you?"

Cocking his head like a distorted owl, Frerin copied the tween and bit gingerly into one of the cakes. His eyes widened and he chomped it down, licking the sugar from his fingers.

"Bihbo! Taway!"

"He can't speak very well, can he?" Lobelia critiqued with a frown. "I expect you'll be taking him around the neighborhood from now on. You can't expect him to sit at home without friends or companions – it's no good for a child."

"Shouldn't you be encouraging me to pass him off to some well-to-do family," Bilbo asked pointedly.

"And his ears are absolutely disgraceful. Have you never once bathed him, Bilbo? Shameful! I would take him home with me right now and give him such a scrubbing that he'd sparkle for a week, only my larder is ghastly empty and I must finish my shopping first." Lobelia glowered at Bilbo as though the smudge on Frerin's nose was a clear sign of negligence. "Well? Haven't you anything to say for yourself?"

"Good luck on your shopping, and thank you for your advice." Dumping the cookies in the teapot he had purchased, Bilbo returned Lobelia's basket. "Good morning."

"Your mother always did have terrible manners!"

Stiffening, Bilbo breathed deeply and turned to cast her a very unkind glare. "My mother had no match for grace and hosting. I will thank you not to speak of her in front of Frerin like that again."

The threat of harming Frerin's composure seemed to bottle Lobelia up. She flicked her skirt and stuck her nose in the air, pertly stomping down to the market.

Bilbo sighed and continued on his journey, muttering a few choice words about "Beastly Hobbits" and "Irksome Meddlers". Frerin stared at him doubtfully, reaching for another tea cake.

"So, Amadnamad, is it?" Bilbo asked. "Isn't that the word for Aunt? Tell me you haven't adopted her."

Frerin grinned and sank his teeth into the cake.


	7. Don't Need These Midnight Visions

_Once Frerin learned his first words, there were stretches of time when it was simply impossible to silence him. He chattered like a sparrow, his Khuzdul muddled like a book with soggy pages. It was a mercy Fili seemed to understand every word. He became his mother's translator, crouching beside Frerin and listening to his babbles until he could point out the exact object he needed. _

_Poor Kíli had to increase his studies just to hold a conversation. It did him a good turn, for he had been too occupied with the freedom of the outdoors to be concerned for his legacy before, and Thorin had lectured him time and time again of the responsibilities required of a prince._

_It was frustrating for Kíli, being the second child. Fíli was patient, Fíli was always doing everything right, Kíli was a bumbling oaf who couldn't forge a sword right, Frerin was still a baby even though he was really eight now, and no one thought he could do anything wrong even though Kíli knew he was going to kill himself one day … so the lad's tirades went. Dís listened in sympathy, let __Kíli __sample lunch early, and sent him on his way with a lighter step and a pocketful of sweet cake. She couldn't fix her middle son, but she could ease the heart that was so desperate for approval._

_Frerin was easier to console. The only thing that mattered to him was that Amad loved him and Adad held him, and either Fíli or Kíli (or Kífí whenever they were together) played with him after they had returned from the forges. _

_Every breeze of attention offered by Thorin, on the other hand, was scrutinized, analyzed for authenticity, and logged away for future contemplation. Sometimes Dís wondered if Thorin realized how obvious it was that he was the one seeking approval. She watched the two sadly, and thought of bitter irony._

* * *

"There's nothing wrong with his legs," the apothecary said as he finished examining Frerin's legs for breaks or scarring. "His feet certainly aren't normal."

"That's because he's a Dwarf." Funny, Bilbo had thought that would have been obvious by now.

"Well, there's your problem right there. He's not a Hobbit. Don't expect him to behave like a normal lad or lass." Satisfied with his diagnosis, the apothecary held out his hand for payment.

Sighing, Bilbo dug out a few coins. He knew there was more to be explained than a case of Dwarves versus other races. Perhaps it was the "Phantom Pain" Gandalf had warned him about. There was no other reason behind Frerin's stumbling, or the fact that his perfectly formed fingers could not hold a pen. There were no scars or evidence of torn ligaments. Frerin simply couldn't play like other children.

"All right, Frerin, I think we've taken enough of the doctor's time." Lifting the child, Bilbo carried him out of the gloomy shack. "Beastly place. There's no malady to be found there that a good cup of tea wouldn't cure."

"Kay-tah?" Frerin asked, pointing at a dragonfly kite soaring overhead.

"Yes, we'll take your frog outside later," Bilbo promised. "For now, it's time to get you home."

He stopped at a peddler's stand, observing the silks and ribbons and wondering if normal Dwarves would be mortified if such dainty threads were found in their hair. Frerin eyed them with equal curiosity, but before Bilbo could make up his mind about a blue ribbon he heard a delighted squeal from Frerin.

"Khazâd! Khazâd!"

Bilbo whirled and following Frerin's finger, then shook his head. "I don't see…."

"Khazâd! Dawf!"

A boy with scandalously scarlet hair turned at the sound, searching the square until his eyes landed on the small speaker. "Hey, now… what have we got here?"

Up close, Bilbo finally recognized the rough sideburns of an early beard. He pulled Frerin closer, unconsciously threatened by anything resembling "Dwarf" and "kin".

"Hi!" The Dwarf held up one hand in casual greeting. "People here call me Red. Is that li'l fella lost?"

Bilbo frowned sharply. "You're not …. Are you …."

"Really a Dwarf?" the kid grinned. "Nah, I'm a monkey born from a frog. Course I'm a Dwarf!" He swung his head towards the traders' wagons. "I'm the only one of my kind, here. Been on the road since I can remember. Hey, is that your Dwarf kid?"

"This is Frerin," Bilbo said warily.

"Hi, Frerin!" Crouching, Red waggled his fingers and grinned. "Where'd he come from? Upper passes? There was a troop here from the west last winter."

"He's staying with me," Bilbo said.

"Neat. Hey, you braid his hair, or do you just tie it back with those sissy-things?"

Bilbo looked at the ribbon display and frowned. "I'm not actually used to caring for Dwarves. Do they wear ribbons?"

Red made a face. "Not even _girls_ wear those."

Bilbo whuffed in agitation. "Well, what do you do, then?"

Red's face screwed up thoughtfully as he scrounged through his pocket. "Hold on, I've got a few here..."

Smiling triumphantly, he held out a handful of jagged, scorched metal beads. "I've been practicing the art. They're not very good, but I can show you how to braid his hair. I know a few simple cords."

He knelt beside Frerin, addressing the child instead of Bilbo. "Mind if I try my hand?"

Astonished at the attention, Frerin spread out his hair. Red grinned up at Bilbo.

"You don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all," Bilbo said hurriedly. "Could you show me?"

"Course!" Red began at the top of Frerin's scalp, singling five strands and slowly weaving them into a plait. "It starts out simply enough. The key is to keep adding strands from the left side until it sidles over to the center."

He slipped a bead onto the half-finished plait, swept in another strand of hair, and continued. Frerin stood quietly, his eyes shut and his postured relaxed. Bilbo saw his eyelid tremble, and guessed he was trying to hold back memories.

"They're not really Dwarven," Red grumbled as he tugged the finished braid. "I learned these from the men up near Rohan. But they'll keep his hair out of his face."

He began another, demonstrating it for Bilbo and then allowing the Hobbit to finish the weave. Frerin clapped his hands over his eyes by the third braid.

"Amad, Amad," he whispered, like it was a chant holding her near.

"She do these for you?" Red asked quietly. "Lucky kid. Or maybe not… I bet you miss her. I never knew my Ma."

"Where are you from?" Bilbo asked curiously.

"Here and there." Red shrugged. "I was raised among this lot of circus freaks. My Da was a drunken bastard, and he got his head rammed in when he tried to carve his name into my face. Can't say I miss him much. The folk here are all right. We never stay in one place for long, and they're all Men with a few Hobbit lasses and a big fat pig, but we stick together, snow or drought."

He showed Bilbo how to slip a bead snuggly around the end of the third braid. "If you knot it just right, it won't slip off. Want to try one more for the left?"

Frerin nodded enthusiastically, his hands still clapped over his face.

"Okay, tiny. Here; this is an easy one."

It would probably be the only braid Bilbo would remember; a quaint three strand plait, with a bead slipped into every other strand four cords down. Satisfied, Red brushed the hair smooth and taped Frerin's shoulder.

"Sorry to ruin the quality time, but we're done."

A few tears slipped down Frerin's cheeks. He held out his arms and Bilbo knelt, allowing the lad to wrap his arms around his neck.

"Thank you," Bilbo said gratuitously.

"Thanks for giving me the chance to practice." Red shrugged. "I can show you a few more next time we're in town – course, that may not be for another four months."

"We'll look forward to it," Bilbo said. He thought it a pity there were no other Dwarves for Frerin to mingle with. "By the way, how old are you?"

""Twenty-three," Frerin stated, drawing himself up proudly.

Bilbo gaped. "Twenty – but you are older than I!"

"Hey, I'm a Dwarf. We're practically immortal."

Bilbo raised a dubious eyebrow and Red chuckled in embarrassment.

"Nah, I'm just a fibber. I'm still a kid, you know. Dwarves don't mature until they're ... what, eighty? Pathetic, really; if I were a Man I'd be ready for a wife by now."

Bilbo snorted in amusement. "How old do you suppose Frerin is, then? I've asked him before, but I'm not sure he understands the question."

"Oh, I can handle that," Red assured. He made a few signs with his hands, then spoke in broken Khuzdul. Instantly Frerin flashed five fingers twice, and then two.

"That's what he said before," Bilbo said. "He can't be –"

"No, he is," Red interrupted. He ruffled Frerin's hair and made a sign to show his approval. "Dwarf bairns grow slower than other races – except Elves, I think. I heard someone say that an Elf can be _fifty_ and still look like a snob-nosed runtling."

Bilbo clapped his hands over Frerin's ears lest he hear any more such profanity. "He really is twelve? Are all Dwarves just beginning to learn at this age?"

Red frowned. "I don't know," he admitted. "I usually meet up with a few friends on the way to Bree. One of them has a brother a couple years older than Frerin. He can throw an axe at twenty paces. Millie in the far wagon has a slow kid, though. He's brilliant, but he can't figure out how to buckle his coat yet. Maybe Frerin just needs to catch up."

Frerin scowled ferociously and Bilbo heartily agreed.

"Or perhaps he has other ways of speaking." There was nothing stunted in the expressive, wide brown eyes and the sharp mind that understood when Gandalf was hiding secrets.

Red shrugged amiably. "Probably. I don't know. I just travel with the freak show." He swung his head in the direction of the wagons. "You want to see our performance? One silver coin per person, and you can see any act you want once you're in the circle."

Bilbo hummed and hawed a moment, then exchanged a glance with Frerin. "Of course. Why waste an opportunity?" He dug into his pocket and Red grinned. "Two admissions, please."

* * *

It started out innocently enough. Red walked on his hands down a long table before flipping three daggers and promptly falling backwards in a clatter of metal. Several Men jumped up next, juggling torches and curved swords. A Hobbit lass danced a merry jig, though Bilbo covered Frerin's eyes a minute later when her raucous sister appeared with a bared midriff and too many gold bangles clattering on her wrists. Two Men posing as Elves leapt out, twisting and flipping as they shot handkerchiefs, thrown fruit and other targets. They were masterfully swift and keen of aim, so much that Bilbo almost believed the clay ears were genuine.

Frerin clapped his hands and crowed, not the least disturbed when a torch dancer whooshed close enough to singe his bangs. (Though Bilbo had a great many things to say, and it took an apple tart for Frerin and the devout promise that the child was in no danger to convince him to stay for the rest of the show.)

It was the finale that ended the merriment, and Bilbo swore many years later that he had never come so close to losing Frerin.

Fire billowed from wide urns bordering the wagon circle. A canopy was drawn across the supports, shadowing the viewers from the bright afternoon sun. In a flash of flame a tall, pale man jumped onto the table, dark hair swishing around his narrow eyes and ringed, pointed ears. Rough fur and a hood sewn from a wolf's head declared "Orc". His sword was as long as his body and he stood taller than the "Elves" who leapt up to conquer their foe.

Frerin screamed.

The high pitched shriek, like a rabbit pinioned by an owl's claws, chilled Bilbo more than the pale Orc. Before he could even think to take Frerin out of the arena the child bolted from his arms, scrambling and falling and crawling for the outskirts of the wagons.

"Frerin!" Bilbo shouted, lunging from the table and knocking a trader aside. "Frerin, wait!"

He pushed through the space between two wagon and blinked in the sunlight, frantically searching the market square.

The child was gone.


	8. Everything My Heart Thought Could Be

_It was never the shadows that frightened her son. It was the monsters that concealed themselves in the darkness. _

_Dís would never forget the day when Frerin first panicked. He had been sitting by the fire with Thorin, the elder's massive hand crooking his arm to demonstrate how to properly throw a dagger, when Dwalin silently entered the room. The candles in the hall had yet to be lit, and the only light in the central room came from the hearth. Dís looked up and for a moment she felt Frerin's terror as a towering form broke from the darkness. _

_Frerin's scream pierced his small throat, louder and shriller than any time he had woken in the night. He tore from Thorin's grasp and collapsed, shivering, hands clapped over his head and legs drawn in protectively. Thorin leapt to reassure him and Frerin shrieked again, blindly crawling from the hands that reached to help him. He sobbed and gagged, each breath punctuated by another scream, until he was cornered by the table and scooped into his mother's arms. _

"_Out! Both of you, get out!"_

_Dwalin's stricken expression and Thorin's horror would not melt Dís' resolve. She shooed her brother and husband out of the room and clutched her little boy, trembling as he choked in panicked delirium. _

"_Frerin, stop! You're all right. What is it you see? Frerin!"_

_She had never been more frightened. Frerin writhed in her arms, ducking away from a nightmare he alone could see. Dís held him and cried, praying for the spell to end._

_Abruptly it passed. Frerin collapsed, gasping rapidly, his eyes flitting wildly around the room._

"_Frerin?" Dís whimpered. _

_He breathed in sharply, frantic dark eyes latching onto her as though seeing her for the first time. "Amad?"_

"_Yes, Frerin," she whispered, shaking worse than he. "It's Amad. You're safe."_

_He sucked in a wavering breath and burrowed against her, eyes drifting listlessly. "Amad. Amad."_

"_What was that?" Dwalin whispered, daring to venture into the room._

"_Bring a candle," Dís said sharply. She waited until the wick flared to life before removing her hand from Frerin's eyes. _

_Dismayed, Dwalin stared at the bairn who just that afternoon had followed him around like a trusting pup. "What happened, Dís?"_

"_I don't know." Dís clutched her son tighter. "I don't understand any of this."_

_Kíli was the next to witness such an attack. Night had fallen and Frerin was slouched in a corner playing with his bits of metal, banned from straying within ten feet of Kíli's work, when the balding, scarred brawler stumped into the room. He flung an iron club onto the broad blade Kíli was trimming, snapping at him to, "Fix it, runt!"_

_Frerin gasped and the man stepped closer. The brawler had only wanted a better look at the dog, cat or stray ferret that was nesting in the corner, but the effect was catastrophic._

_Fear ripped through the air in a child's scream. The man jumped back in alarm and Kíli dropped his sword, burning his hand and losing the entire blade as the iron club snapped red-hot metal. _

"_I didn't..." the man began._

_Kíli was already at his brother's side, scrambling for answers and finding only panic. Frerin convulsed before falling still, each shuddering breath an effort as his eyes darted in a wakeful dream._

"_Go get a doctor!" Kíli begged._

_The man shook his head and quickly retrieved his club. "Ain't got no business with Dwarves. Wasn't my fault he spooked."_

_Flexing his hands anxiously, Kíli gingerly lifted his brother and sat back, rubbing Frerin's back like Mum did. _

"_Please stop. Fíli and Thorin won't be back for an hour and I don't know what I'm supposed to do."_

_Frerin arched and coughed, leaning to vomit over Kíli's shoulder. He gave another high pitched cry. Kíli cursed, equally startled and helpless in the situation._

"_No, Frerin – you can't – you have to breathe. You'll choke and I… I don't … I don't know what to do. Just stop already, Frerin!"_

_He needed Oin. Oin would know what was wrong at once. A spoonful of some dark bottled syrup would calm Frerin and he would sleep restlessly for an hour or so, and by the time he woke Fíli would have returned and he could hush their brother in the way only Fíli could._

_But Oin was on the other side of the village, and Kíli was alone._

"_Shh," he whispered, cringing when the child wailed. "Sh. Don't cry, Frerin. Big brother will be back in a moment. I know I'm not much of a replacement, but you've got to accept this and stop crying. You'll sicken yourself, and then Mum will have my head. I don't want her to be upset; it's her birthday tomorrow."_

_Somewhere in the awkward reasoning and supplications, Frerin's hiccups stopped. He slumped against Kíli, rasping as the nightmarish visions crept back to the shadows where they belonged. Slowly his lashes slid shut. Soft snores evened his breathing and a thin line of drool stained Kíli's collar. Closing his eyes in relief, Kíli let his head thunk back against the wall._

_He never mentioned the incident to anyone._

* * *

Darkness fell, and Frerin was not to be found. The circus team had volunteered to aid Bilbo's search, combing through the market and nearby houses. Even Kæzog, the abnormality who stood over seven feet tall, rummaged through every barrel and crawlspace where a Dwarfling could hide.

The jarring scream haunted Bilbo. He found himself clutching Frerin's jacket, wrinkling the fabric as he wondered if he would see the little one again.

"We'll find him," Kæzog said, clearly uncomfortable with the concept of offering sympathy. "He can't have run far. Dashed thin legs wouldn't have reached the Brandywine by this time."

The Brandywine. Images of Frerin drowning, choking and screaming with no one to lift him from the water, crushed Bilbo and he moaned. Kæzog grimaced.

"You're not going to be sick, are you?"

Tentatively he tapped his fingers on Bilbo's back, attempting to console him. "He's probably not dead yet. Most Dwarf bairns can make it two days in the wild on their own."

Bilbo agitatedly brushed his sleeve over his eyes. "This is not helping!"

"Fine. I'll keep looking," Kæzog grumbled. He slung his sword over his shoulder and stalked away.

Folding the jacket carefully over his arm, Bilbo dried his tears and called the bairn's name. Shadows mocked him and a plump torte-shell cat yowled.

Frerin never appeared.

* * *

For the next two days Bilbo went from hole to hole, knocking on every door and begging leave to search any barns or sheds. He began with the families living near the market, moving inland to his distant cousins, and finally questioning his close neighbors. No one had seen Frerin.

"Told you he would be too much," Farmer Benton said darkly. "Dwarf child, nonetheless. They're wanderers; he never belonged in the Shire."

"He was never more welcome," Bilbo said quietly.

He walked along the riverbank, telling himself he was searching for mushrooms and not a limp child. He backtracked to Bag End and searched every closet and tight space.

Nothing had been disturbed since he'd left.

It was while Bilbo was returning to the market, despairing that he would never see Frerin again, when he heard Lobelia's shrill voice drifting on the wind.

She was … singing.

Feeling less vexed in the wake of numbed denial, Bilbo trudged up the path and casually glanced through the window. Lobelia's arms were streaked with dishwater suds and her hair was askew. She rubbed her forehead with the back of her wrist, beginning another a grating, off-key verse. A tinny pitch accompanied her. Bilbo clapped a hand to his mouth, dizzy with unbelief.

"F-Frerin? Frerin!"

Brown eyes peeked over the window and a howl resounded through the house. Clattering feet bounded through the hall and the door was flung open, a whirlwind of bronze sunlight crashing into Bilbo's arms.

"Bihbo! Bihbo!"

He cried, not caring that Lobelia saw, for his dear, precious child was returned and Frerin was safe and unharmed and as happy as if he had been reading in the armchair all day.

Lobelia stood in the doorway, arms folded crossly as she watched the tearful reunion. When at last Bilbo rose to thank her, she shrugged him off and tossed the dishtowel into his hands.

"Next time you leave your bairn unwatched, I'm giving him to the Bracegirdles." She slammed the door in Bilbo's face.

Frerin tugged on Bilbo's hand, dark eyes filled with anxious pleading. "Bihbo sthay?"

"Yes," Bilbo exclaimed, hugging the lad close. "You're coming home to stay with me."

"Bye bye, Loba!" Frerin waved brightly and then skipping ahead, grinning when Bilbo trotted to keep up.

"None of that, now," Bilbo muttered, lifting the child onto his shoulders. He dared not set Frerin down, fearing he would vanish the moment he turned his back.

"How on earth did you wind up in Lobelia's house?"

"Loba!" Frerin sang, delighted with the ride home. "Loba, Loba!"

Bilbo supposed he would never know the other side of the story, but he suspected "Amadnamad" had been the one to carry the lost Dwarfling home.


	9. In a Single Night It All Has Changed

**Important A.N.** From this point on, Bilbo's memories of Frerin will be dated as time fast-forwards to the fateful day when a certain Dwarf appears on his doorstep….

There will continue to be inserts on Frerin's past, both with Bilbo and with his real family.

* * *

_Frerin's birthday was perhaps the worst day of the year. As winter dragged on he grew silent, jumping at every scritch of sound. The sound of __Fíli__ sharpening his knives was enough to send him into hysterics. He rarely left the house, and when he was forced to travel he whimpered until someone held his hand. He spent much of his time with D__í__s, hiding in the folds of her skirt; never speaking, only waiting for something to happen._

_Azanulbizar dawned, dark and knifing with bitter winds, and he vanished under the bed. No one could coax him out – not even __Fíli__. _

"_He feels their loss," Balin said insightfully. "Durin's blood runs strong in his veins."_

"_Then I wish they would leave him alone!" D__í__s snapped. "He's troubled enough; he doesn't need ghosts haunting him."_

_He clung to whomever would sit with him during Azanulbizar. __All except Thorin._

_Thorin would kneel and Frerin would shy away, staring at his hands before running from the room. Over and over. On that one day, Thorin was not permitted to touch his nephew._

"_I don't understand it," D__í__s said when Thorin finally admitted he was perplexed by the avoidance. Frerin was nine, and still the pattern repeated. "He was playing with you just last week."_

_She would always remember the peace and fulfillment in Thorin's eyes on that afternoon, when Frerin beamed like a cub who had found its littermates as he tossed a ball with his uncle. It was just a game between them; no training, no hidden references for survival. They rested in the sun, Frerin sleeping on his uncle's chest, and tears sparked D__í__s' eyes as she pictured how it should have been between her brothers. _

_On the day of Azanulbizar, that spark of fear returned. Color washed away and Thorin remembered only how he had failed._

_Then the day would pass, and immediately the clouds would vanish from Frerin's life. D__í__s began planning a small party for the day after, which was a preferable arrangement for everyone. It never felt right to celebrate life when death hung on everyone's minds._

_D__í__s was uneasy when Frerin began to seem relieved he had awakened the next morning at all. But Thorin was just as frantic, checking on Frerin every hour as the night passed and holding out his great hand to ensure the child was breathing. Even a century after Azanulbizar, his nightmares were just as vicious as Frerin's._

_With such paranoia radiating from his uncle, D__í__s supposed it was natural for Frerin to be a little frightened of his birthday, too._

_He disappeared three weeks before he was to turn twelve._

* * *

(TA 2920 - 21 years before the Quest. Frerin is 20)

The first birthday had been a disaster. Bilbo had wrangled a date from Frerin and marked it on the calendar, determining to celebrate it properly. It was the darkest day of mid-winter, which meant that Frerin's birthday had taken place two days before Bilbo had found him. He had prepared a lavish party so that Frerin would never be lacking in playmates, only for the birthday child to vanish that very morning.

He found Frerin huddled in his mother's glory box, clutching his knees to his chest. The Dwarfling looked up at Bilbo and desperately shook his head.

"Don't you want to come to the party?" Bilbo asked. "There's a magnificent cake, and half your friends are here."

Frerin turned sheet white, becoming so still that Bilbo feared he was sick. He sent his disgruntled guests home and spent the rest of the day holding Frerin while the child shivered.

As soon as the last chimes of midnight sounded, Frerin shuddered in unspoken relief and closed his eyes.

The scene repeated year after year. Bilbo learned to prepare the celebration for a week after the official date. He noticed that Frerin was skittish a few weeks before his birthday, jumping at shadows and tensing as though waiting for something to grab him. It wasn't until Frerin was ushered into his twentieth birthday – according to the Shire, his grand entrance into the "tweens" (and here Bilbo laughed, remembering that he was still considered an ill-reputable tween who could not possibly raise a child) – before learning the reasoning behind Frerin's odd flight.

"I don't understand it." Frerin's voice was breathy and hushed, and his Westron still slurred when he was nervous. "I feel like I'm running from something. I'm frightened, and I don't want that day to come. As soon as it passes, I'm fine… Then winter returns, and I feel as though I'm trying to survive again."

He lowered his eyes, abashed. "I know. It doesn't make sense."

"Maybe not." Bilbo remembered Gandalf's warning and thought it made absolute, chilling sense.

He scratched Frerin's birthday from the calendar.

"Is it time?" Frerin gushed a week after that day, his smile bright and impetuous and his hair falling in tangled waves around his shoulders. His head reached Bilbo's chin now, but he was still a beardless youth, all gangly limbs and high-pitched vocal chords. "Tweens" was a suitable term for him, even if it would be many more years before he reached adulthood.

"Yes, yes," Bilbo said, steering the Dwarfling away from the window lest he see the preparations. Thank goodness there wasn't enough snow to prevent an outdoor party. "Did you even brush your hair yet? You haven't. Brush."

Sighing, Frerin trotted for his room. He stumbled in the hall, catching himself in time. His balance was slowly improving.

Bilbo stared at the closed door, warmth flooding his chest. Frerin had become more than an orphan caught up from the snow. He was a shy, affectionate child, soaking in love and returning it with twice the fervor. He had wriggled his way into every home east of the Brandywine, exploring the countryside until his legs grew strong and agile and he was welcomed in for tea by five different neighbors each day. (Bilbo swore that if he ever crossed the river, the Tooks would adopt him without conscience.)

Eventually even Farmer Benton had grunted that Bilbo had done a fine job, though he added a second later that he would likely go berserk from the lack of stability in his childhood.

"Too much nonsense about fairies and Elves," Benton grumbled. "A proper Baggins stays clear of that business. Watch your inheritance, Bilbo. Step into the wilds and you'll find many relatives jumping at the chance to share your belongings."

Strangest to Bilbo was how his cousin was treated. Frerin could have taken his pick out of all the bubbly, warm-hearted mothers in the Shire, and yet he had chosen Lobelia as his surrogate aunt. Though Lobelia tried to hide it, the whole Shire knew she secretly wanted to steal her admirer along with Bilbo's spoons.

Frerin burst from his room in a flurry of bronze hair, his clothes stiffly ironed and his boots gleaming with fresh shine. "Now?"

"Braids," Bilbo insisted.

Sighing, Frerin sat down and spread out the sleek waves. Tarnished, poorly crafted Dwarven beads, along with brightly colored glass bits, were woven into dozens of tiny plaits. Bilbo could only ever remember the simplest braid Red had taught him. Though Wilma Cotton treated Frerin like a daughter and would invite him over just to plait his hair into hundreds of intricate loops, Bilbo preferred the basic weave. It was calming, the repetitive twist and furl, and it soothed away nightmares and anxiety alike for Frerin.

"Tired already?" Bilbo teased as Frerin's eyes slid shut. "We haven't even had the cake yet."

"Mmh," Frerin hummed. "Peppermint tea?"

"And fireweed and blackberry and spiced ale – you're too young, don't even try it." Twenty years as a Dwarf was the official twelve in Bilbo's mind, and he had no intention of spoiling Frerin's childhood.

"Ham scones?"

"Scones and tarts and muffins of all kinds and why am I telling you all this? You're supposed to be surprised on your birthday!"

Frerin grinned slyly. "I can act surprised."

"You'll make me the laughing stock of the Shire." Bilbo tied off the last braid and gave it a tug. "Go on, now. Let's not keep our guests waiting."

Frerin bolted for the door and slammed headfirst into the wood when his legs decided to give out. Shaking himself irritably, he flung the door open and skittered outside before Bilbo could warn, "And don't run so fast!"

"Coats," Bilbo muttered, aghast that he had forgotten them. He grabbed his and Frerin's and hurried outside, searching the mob for a glint of bronze.

"Mister Bilbo!" Lula Bluebottle called, leaving her platter of cakes on the groaning dessert table. "A fine morning to you!"

"Thank you, Lula, and to you as well," Bilbo said with distracted politeness, still looking for his errant Dwarf.

"Right down there with Tolman Cotton," Lula said helpfully.

"Ah! Thank you very much." Slipping through the crowd, Bilbo made his way to the huddle of laughing tweens. Frerin was the shortest of the lot, and perhaps the youngest – his friends who had been eleven and thirteen on his arrival now looked stouter and more certain of the world than he. When they reached their thirties and passed on to adulthood, Frerin would be fifty years behind.

Bilbo hoped he would find other friends by then, for he imagined that such a life would be very lonesome.

"Your coat, Frerin," he called, shaking his head that any child could neglect such a thing. Just because illness avoided Dwarves did not mean one could not catch cold!

Frerin glanced up and smiled when he saw Bilbo. He reached for his coat, leaning in to whisper, "That's Bell Goodchild."

"Yes, you have tea with her family every other week," Bilbo said.

Ducking his head, Frerin said shyly, "She's pretty."

Oh, dear. This might be harmful, if Frerin was beginning to notice the young lasses. If Red was correct that Dwarves could live to be three hundred or more….

It must be a very lonesome life indeed.

"Well, now." Bilbo cleared his throat awkwardly. "I'll leave you to talk with your friends, then."

Perhaps it would be harmless after all. Bell would grow quickly and she would be a married woman before Frerin reached his fiftieth year. Bilbo hoped nothing would come of it.

"Oh, dear," Bilbo sighed. "Deary, deary me."

"You seem upset for a celebrating father."

Bilbo glanced up and smiled when he saw Gandalf. "You made it after all! Frerin will be pleased to see you. It's been five years since your last visit."

"Indeed it has," Gandalf said. "Your son seems to be in good health, and all the more cheerful than before."

"He's technically not my son," Bilbo corrected. "Not officially, that is. But yes… he is happier, I believe."

"That is good," Gandalf said mysteriously. "He will need these times to look back on."

Bilbo watched the tweens scurry off for the dessert tables, then looked up at Gandalf in concern. "What are you hinting at?"

Gandalf hesitated before saying in a low voice, "I may have found information regarding his old family."

"His – his family?" Bilbo said, aghast. "You mean there are other Dwarves?"

"Dwarves have kinfolk just as Hobbits do," Gandalf said. "They have cousins to the fifth generation and more. It would be impossible to find a Dwarf who does not have family."

"Then – then why haven't they come for him?" Bilbo protested. "It's been eight years, Gandalf!"

"They may not know he is alive. Bilbo…." Gandalf trailed off reluctantly. "You must be prepared. You cannot keep him from his birthright, no matter how dear he holds you."

The thought was warming and dreadful at the same time. Worry shadowed Bilbo's view as he watched Frerin balance a tart on Tolman's nose, much to the amusement of his friends.

"Could they really take him away?"

"He would be among his people," Gandalf corrected. "For them, he would be returning to where he belongs."

Bilbo swallowed thickly and almost wished Gandalf had never come.

* * *

(Two years later - TA 2922)

"Do you still remember your family?"

It was a misty, cold day; Frerin's real birthday to be exact. He stared out the window at nothing, forehead pressed against the glass. It seemed to be the worst possible time to ask, but Bilbo could not wait any longer.

Frerin blinked slowly, wrenching himself out of his thoughts. "My family?" he asked softly. "You mean my Amad?"

Stirring extra honey into the tea, Bilbo pressed a mug into Frerin's hands and sat beside him. "You don't have to talk about it. I just thought … well, it's a miserable day, and sometimes talking about things make them easier."

Accepting the tea, Frerin watched it swirl but did not touch it. "Sometimes I wonder which family I remember."

Bilbo's forehead creased. "Did you have other kin?"

Frerin scratched at the wear in his trouser knee. "Do you ever have strange dreams? Like you've lived another life?"

Suddenly Bilbo was very glad he had been sitting, for he was quite certain he would have been faint. "You … remember things," he guessed.

Frerin looked up sharply and nodded. "They're not just dreams. I've seen them before – I know it."

Bilbo flexed his hands and carefully set down his tea. "Frerin, there's something I need to tell you. I think … I think it's true that you've lived another life. Remember the first day Gandalf came to visit? He told me he recognized you."

"Then who am I?" Frerin asked breathlessly.

"That, I do not know," Bilbo admitted. "He said he knew your father. He said you…" and here Bilbo said it very carefully, dreading a fit of panic, "…Died in battle."

This seemed to calm Frerin rather than upset him. "It makes sense," he whispered. "All of my dreams – they're the same. There's a white Orc, and I'm in pain."

"Frerin, how long have you had these dreams?" Bilbo asked in alarm.

"All my life," Frerin said softly. "They get worse near my birthday. Sometimes they change, though. Sometimes I see …" He stopped raggedly and wiped his nose. "I see my uncle there sometimes. He stands there, but he doesn't – he doesn't do anything. I scream and scream but he just watches, like it's a dogfight and he's placed a bet."

"Dwarves do that?" Bilbo stuttered, alarmed that anyone would pit dogs against each other.

Frerin frowned. "No… that's not right. Dwarves aren't cruel. Not since…. But that's the other part of the dream. I'm in a mountain. I have … I have a sister?" He shook his head. "It's all vague. My uncle is there, too, only he's not the same."

His eyes turned sad as he traced the frost on the window. "I don't remember much of them anymore. The Thorin I knew in the mountain… he pushed me out. Like I wasn't worth any more than that dog."

"Frerin," Bilbo whispered hoarsely. His hands shook. How could he imply that this Thorin might indeed be part of Frerin's past?

Abruptly Frerin shook himself out of his thoughts. "It doesn't matter. They're just dreams." He looked at Bilbo uncertainly. "Aren't they?"

Bilbo struggled to speak and finally patted the young Dwarf's hand. "Just … keep track of them. Tell me if you see anything new."

He scanned the bookshelf and rose to select an empty book that Frerin hadn't scribbled in yet. "Would you do me a kindness and record your dreams for me? Maybe if I see them too, I can help you understand them."

Frerin slowly took the book and nodded. Bilbo smiled wanly, his tea sloshing over his fingers.

He wished those memories would stay buried.

He wished this 'Thorin' had never been part of Frerin's life.

* * *

(Present Day - TA 2941. Frerin is 42)

"It's not a tea kettle, it's a bunch of what-not and it is not going on the table."

"But it holds water!" Frerin's eyes widened in exaggerated hurt as he cradled the bulky sphere of metal plates and wires.

"So does your boot, and you do not see it hanging over the fire."

Frerin scowled and set the kettle reverently on the table. "I'll make cups to match, and then I'll sell it to Aunt Lobelia and the whole Shire will want a set. Then you'll _have_ to accept it, or else be left behind."

"There is nothing wrong with my mother's china," Bilbo said tartly. He looked at the glass cabinet, where a dusty set of ordinary, breakable dishware from the market rested, and remembered old times.

"Speaking of which, would you set out another plate and fetch the poppy seed cakes? Blasted wizard probably won't show up until a month from now, even though I told him he was welcome to drop in for tea yesterday."

"What did Gandalf want?" Frerin wondered, lifting an alarming stack of cups and saucers. Bilbo shot him a glare before he could try balancing the teapot on his head.

"Something about adventures," Bilbo said. "I told him I might be interested, but I'd need more specifics. Can't just go running off into the blue without a proper destination."

"Like the time you followed little Rosie into the Old Forest looking for dust fairies? Tolman never forgave you for that. She's a Cotton, not a Took."

"Well, I'm certainly not being held accountable for that Brandybuck child you've encouraged. Heaven knows you're responsible for half the irresponsible children in the Shire. Farmer Maggot said you bewitched his dogs, and even little Gamgee isn't afraid of them any longer."

"He shouldn't be scared," Frerin said with a frown. "Children shouldn't have to be afraid of anything."

Bilbo watched him out of the corner of his eye. "Something … you want to talk about?"

Frerin sighed and leaned his hands against the table. "Sometimes I try to remember if I was ever brave."

"Because of the past?" Bilbo asked. "Or … far past?"

"I don't know." Frerin's brow furrowed and he began setting out plates. "Do you suppose it matters?"

"Matters, yes!" Bilbo said emphatically. "I've told you that before. No use confusing unpleasant things with perfectly good memories. Makes for an upset stomach and a worse disposition. Fetch the water for tea, will you?"

Frerin returned with the kettle, obnoxiously clearing his throat when he passed the copper plated disaster. For a few minutes there was comfortable silence, broken by the soft bubbling of water and the sizzling of potatoes and fish.

The hard rap on the door had Frerin fumbling mid-pour, sloshing water over Bilbo's hand. Bilbo yanked away, flapping off the burning sensation.

"It's fine!" he said quickly as Frerin slammed the kettle down, apologizing profusely. "Just a scald. That's probably Gandalf at the door. Late, as usual."

"I'll get it." Bounding over a chair (and nearly planting his face in the floor, to which Bilbo shouted, "I told you not to run!"), Frerin grappled with the doorknob and flung it open with enthusiasm.

"Gandalf! When are you going to…?"

Frerin's voice trailed into a strangled squeak. Bilbo glanced his way and stiffened, nearly dropping the fish.

"Frerin? Is everything all right?"

Frerin had lost all color, as though the white Orc had risen from his dreams and now stood before him, sword raised against the night. He stepped back, breathing shallowly, and suddenly bolted. Twice he stumbled, caught himself, slammed blindly into the far wall, and then careened for his room with a wildness Bilbo had not seen since he was thirteen.

"Frerin!" Grabbing a letter opener (which really wasn't an effective weapon when he thought about it later), Bilbo scurried to the door and peered around it.

Instantly he dropped his hand.

"You …. You're a Dwarf."

The fierce, balding warrior barged past Bilbo and frantically searched the hall. "Who was that?" he demanded, leaning over the Hobbit like a maddened bear.

"I'm sorry," Bilbo said with forced calm. He closed the door against the draft and stepped in front of the Dwarf, preventing him from entering the hall. "But, who are you? You can't just barge into someone's house without invitation!"

"Don't pester me with your customs," the warrior growled. "That _boy_; who was he? And don't tell me that was another Hobbit lass."

Irritated at the typical rude, ill-mannered behavior of outsiders, Bilbo folded his arms and gave the Dwarf his best glower. (And since that was usually his "Don't you dare eat that cake before dinner, Frerin!" glare, it was surely enough to make even a warrior quiver.)

"That… is my son."

It was technically a lie. Bilbo had never officiated Frerin as his son, for in time everyone associated the lad as 'Bilbo's Dwarfling', but there was something in this Dwarf's stare that Bilbo fought against, screaming with all the possessiveness he could muster, '_Mine!_'

The Dwarf fixed him with a haunted stare, no doubt realizing for the first time that he had a dangerous opponent. Funny, Bilbo thought the letter opener would have been warning enough.

"Now then, if you would be so kind as to state your name and your business, and then we will discuss this matter quietly – preferably over supper. As you see, it is quite dark outside, tea was over three hours ago, and our quiet evening has been remarkably interrupted."

Bilbo expected the Dwarf to take the hint and politely excuse himself until four o'clock the next afternoon. Instead the Dwarf growled low in his throat, shot a look at Frerin's door, and stalked to the table.

"Fine. Get the food. Then we'll talk."

Bilbo flexed his hands, staring at the crossed axes across the Dwarf's back. Oh, dear… his quiet evening seemed to be turning into an absolute disaster.

_Whoever, he is, he's not taking Frerin away._ Bilbo would sooner give Frerin to Lobelia than watch him be marched away by this bully.

_Now, how does one properly evict a Dwarf?_

* * *

**A.N.** Bell Goodchild is a Tolkien character whom you might have seen mentioned in fanfic works by other authors. In the Tolkien Universe she marries Hamfast Gamgee, father of a certain well loved gardener.

Just realized something... When the timelines match up, Frerin is only nine years younger than Bilbo. Tells you a lot about Hobbit vs. Dwarf age differences.


	10. Im Afraid to Walk Back Through That Door

**A.N.** Reminder: from this point on, Bilbo's memories of Frerin will be dated as time fast-forwards to the day the Company arrives. There will continue to be inserts on Frerin's past, both with Bilbo and with his real family.

* * *

_Frerin drew mountains. Tall mountains, squat mountains, strings of mountains, mountains filled with fire, mountains topped with snow, mountains coated with ash and scattered with crude swords. He drew an Orc on a mountain and __Dís__ burned the picture at once, ordering him never to draw such a horrid thing again. _

_Since the time Ori coaxed an oil brush into his hand, Frerin was obsessed with mountains. __Dís__ rolled her eyes, blaming Thorin for reminiscing about Erebor until the older boys knew his stories by heart. Dwalin patted Frerin proudly on the head, stating that he was a true Durin and he knew where he belonged. Ori just became the paperboy whom Frerin passed his drawings off to as soon as he was bored. He had over fifty mountains pasted on his wall._

_Mountains meant shelter to Frerin. He drew them when he was upset. He peaked a blanket over his bed whenever he had to sleep alone. He patted mud into large mounds and put walls, rock towers and moats all around._

_Dís__ never stopped to consider that the river docks lay between their home and the Lonely Mountain._

"_I saw him," one fisherman said as he pulled his catch from a hole in the ice. "Little black shadow? Looked like a lost dog? Down the south bend. Must have caught his nose on something important, cause he was looking for something."_

_It was a mother's worst nightmare._

_She ordered her boys to stay home. They fought her, F__íli __reasoning and K__íli __begging her to change her mind, but she gave them no choice. She would not lose another child._

_They travelled alone, she and Thorin and Dwalin, across the frozen river and past the moors, until they were stopped by a sheet of ice and snow so thick that the bodies of wolves had been buried underneath._

"_You'll not be going any further." The Men of the Westmarch, driven from their homes by the frost, gathered in a barrier to discourage unwary travelers. "Look below you."_

_Dís__ smothered a scream and Dwalin swore. Bones lay in the ice beneath them, with the iron belts and beaded scalps of Broadbeam Dwarves. One wolf's mouth was frozen in a snarl, stretched over a severed limb. _

_Dís__ whirled and vomited._

"_Mahal save us!" Dwalin breathed. _

"_No one crosses this point."_

"_Was there a child?" Thorin pleaded. "A boy? He was small and frail-limbed."_

"_These corpses are two months old," the leader said. _

"_He was lost nary a month ago," Dwalin said, relief tinging his voice._

"_Then we have not seen him." _

_They raised their swords, unwilling to bicker with Dwarves. Dwalin pulled __Dís__ away._

"_We'll find him. He's still alive – I know it."_

_Winter dragged on._

* * *

(TA 2912, 29 years before the Quest. Frerin is 13)

"Hey, bunnykins! I want you to meet a friend of mine!"

Spinning around, Frerin shouted in delight and ran to Red's outstretched arms. The second winter had passed and the trader wagons had returned, overflowing with buttons, coats, fur caps, and all sorts of wonderful, strange new things.

"Nori, this is Bunny. Bunny, this is a good example of a real Dwarf. He's over one-hundred years old!"

"Bunnah?" Frerin tilted his head in question.

Bilbo started to intervene. "Actually, his name is –"

"Bunny. _Bunny_," Red emphasized. He winked at Bilbo and continued showing off Frerin like a kid obsessed with a new puppy. "He's small, burrows into dark places, and gnaws carrots like his teeth are growing out. Bunny, this here is Nori. He can pick locks and snitch a purse right out from under someone's nose. He's been stuck in half the jail cells in the Blue Mountains, and slipped free every time!"

"Oh dear!" Bilbo said, covering his mouth. This was hardly the Dwarven influence he wanted for Frerin.

But Nori was oddly gentle with the bairn. He spoke little, and in his own gruff mannerism entertained the child, allowing Frerin to touch his poofy hair and beads. Frerin babbled endless questions, which Nori answered briefly in Khuzdul. He braided a new silver bead into Frerin's hair, explaining to Bilbo how the twisted curl assured good luck.

"Are there others you can teach me?" (Although Bilbo knew he frustrated Red to no end, as he could only remember the most basic plaits.)

"No. We do not share our heritage."

"That's the only answer you'll get out of him," Red whispered.

Nori patted Frerin on the head, straightened his jacket and left without a word. Bilbo checked his purse and Frerin's pockets just to be sure nothing had vanished during the conversation. He found a solid gold coin in the right chest pocket of Frerin's overalls.

The Dwarf never returned, and Bilbo soon forgot the encounter.

* * *

(TA 2927, 14 years before the Quest. Frerin is 28)

"You seriously don't."

"Is it … bad?"

"Bad? Like, wicked bad, yeah! No, that is seriously – I don't even do it! And I have almost nothing to speak for!"

Mildly perturbed, Bilbo glanced over at the bead display where Frerin and Red were arguing. He loudly cleared his throat. "Is there a problem?"

Red folded his arms with a dull snort. "He shaves."

Flushing, Frerin ran a hand down his smooth cheek. "No one else does?"

"Um… Haven't we gone over this already?" Sensing another moment of revelation, Bilbo explained, "Hobbits don't grow facial hair, Red. Frerin sees no need for a beard, as it might segregate him from his friends." As if the age gap wasn't enough. "He's been shaving since he was twenty."

"Twenty-four," Frerin mumbled in embarrassment.

"Seriously." Rolling his eyes, Red ruffled Frerin's hair until his braids flew askew. "You shave to fit in with the Hobbits. Kid, you're the weirdest rabbit I've ever seen." He shrugged and flung out his hands. "But, if it makes you feel better, then … eh, your face, your life. Hobbit lasses are prettier than Dwarves, anyways. Now this..." He vainly stroked his braided sideburns with their gold beads. "This attracts the tavern ladies. Course, my chin still has to catch up… but I've got time."

"Birthday coming up?" Bilbo guessed, glancing at the bead stand. Red seemed to have a yearly pattern in which he purchased new beads and dumped the old ones on Frerin, as though he doubted Bilbo was capable of tending to his friend's "Dwarven needs."

"Not till Spring," Red said. "I … I have a lass. Met her in the Prancing Pony last autumn. I thought I'd bring her a present."

"Oh," Bilbo said faintly. "Well, that sounds ... quaint." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Frerin, we should be getting home. It's almost time for dinner."

Heaven save him from Dwarven influences.

"Think I should go with pink? I hear Dwarf lasses like silver better, but all they have here is glass. Maybe something red…."

* * *

(Present Day, TA 2941. Frerin is 42)

Bilbo had scarcely set Gandalf's plate in front of the massive Dwarf when the doorbell rang. Flabbergasted, Bilbo cleared his throat and motioned to the teapot (which was conveniently lukewarm).

"Help yourself. If you will excuse me for just one moment…" He hastened to the door, shooting a glance to ensure the Dwarf didn't run for Frerin's room the moment his back was turned.

"Gandalf, I can't understand why –"

Again, Bilbo had to swallow his words. A white-haired Dwarf watched him with nonchalant sympathy.

"Actually, it's Balin son of Fundin. At your service, Master Hobbit."

"B-Bilbo Baggins," Bilbo said, both his mother's manners and his well-planned lecture deserting him. Briskly he shook himself back to his senses. "Wait a moment, who directed you to my house in the first place?"

"Balin!" The first Dwarf hurried to the door and dragged the elder inside. "It's him. Gandalf was right. He's alive!"

"Are you absolutely sure, Dwalin?" Balin said cautiously. "There's many a lass here you've confused with Frerin already."

Bilbo's heart squeezed and bled, and he suddenly felt the need to lean against the door. "You … you know Frerin?"

"He's my son!" Dwalin said ardently. "That's what I've been trying to tell you! He's my wee bairn, lost these thirty years."

"Dwalin – Dwalin, wait," Balin cautioned, noting the drop in Bilbo's expression. "Chances are, this might be the wrong house. Why don't we see the lad first and give him a chance to speak for himself."

"I'll… I'll get him from his room," Bilbo said softly. He walked slowly, every step weighted by a thousand possible excuses. It was the wrong house – of course! Another Dwarf named Frerin had been lost and somehow the Dwarves had been directed to his door.

"_Frerin is not a common name,"_ Gandalf had told him.

"_Lost these thirty years…." _Dwalin had said.

"Oh, Frerin," Bilbo whispered. He forced himself to open the mahogany door and closed it silently behind him.

Frerin was sitting on his bed, hugging his knees as he stared at the far wall. "I know him," he gasped thickly.

"Frerin…" Bilbo forced the words. "He says he's your – your –"

"My father – I know," Frerin said. He shivered and rubbed his arms. "How is he here? You said he was –"

"I thought he had been killed," Bilbo said numbly. "I heard the reports and I – well, there wasn't anything else to assume. No other families came through the Shire, and none of the Dwarven traders recognized you."

"My family didn't _leave_ the Blue Mountains," Frerin whispered hoarsely. "I ran away."

Dumfounded, Bilbo sat down heavily. "You ran? But why? After all this time, why didn't you tell me?"

"I thought it didn't matter anymore," Frerin whispered. "I thought they were gone."

"But why would you leave them?" Bilbo remembered the tearful Dwarfling who had been so devoted to his mother.

"I don't know." Frerin's brow furrowed as he dragged out old memories. "I just remember … I had to run. There was something in the air; like the Dwarves were pushing in on me, forging me into something I didn't want to be. I felt … threatened."

"So you left them."

"It makes no sense now." Frerin clenched his fists and dug his palms into his forehead. "I remember wanting to find the Lonely Mountain. I thought – I thought if I could reach it, everything would be right again. Something in my dreams…"

"You mean to tell me," Bilbo said raggedly, "That all this time you worried your family to death, caused yourself insurmountable pain because I believed they were dead, and all along you were searching for a _mountain_."

Frerin stared at his hands. "It seemed so important. The feeling left after you took me in. After that, I couldn't find my way back."

"Or perhaps the hillside seemed mountain enough." Bilbo shook his head in disbelief. "Well, you were a child; you couldn't know any better. … But Frerin, you realize … you realize this is going to change everything? Your father is out there right now. I can't go on pretending this isn't real. You're going to have to speak with him and you might …." He swallowed, gathering his emotions, "… You might be asked to return with him - to your family."

Frerin startled like a frightened deer. "But that means I would have to leave you – and the Shire! You're not asking me to do that, are you? I'll talk with him – I'll stay a whole week and do nothing but talk with him, if you like. But I can't go back there again! It's – you wouldn't understand it. The Dwarves where I came from... they're dark and aloof, and all they care about is gold. They don't care about mushrooms and rain showers and spending tea time with five or six different neighbors. Besides, I told little Marigold I would help her with her clover garden, and you know Aunt Lobelia would be upset if I wasn't there for second breakfast tomorrow. I can't –"

"Frerin, I didn't say you would be forced to leave this instant," Bilbo said calmly, though his heart raced like a trapped pony. "Dwalin is waiting to meet you you. Why don't we just … talk to him, and find out what he wants?"

Frerin gasped threadily. "Do I … do I have to speak to him alone?"

Bilbo's heart wrenched with compassion and loss. "Would I ever ask you to do that?" He drew himself up with what dignity he had left. "My mother was a Took, after all. It takes more than a possessive father to frighten me."

And if the challenge proved to be too much, he could always send for Lobelia. He'd like to see the Dwarves fight off her umbrella.


	11. To Find that I've Awakened

_He woke screaming again, ripping the night with agony and loss so deep that Dís slammed into the wall running to find him. He was huddled in the darkest corner of his room, sobbing._

"_Frerin! Frerin, look at me! Look at me! It was only a dream!"_

"_Amrad! Amrad! Rukhsarras, aznân! Mabazgûn Adad! Adad!"_

"_He is here!" Dís assured, scooping up the hysterical child. She whirled and all but ran into Dwalin, thrusting Frerin into his arms. "Frerin, look! Your father is alive. There are no Orcs. You are safe."_

_Frerin wailed and buried his face in Dwalin's beard, shutting his parents out. He continued to murmur, clinging to his father's neck._

"_Nod deah, nod deah, mabazgûn Adad…."_

"_He is not slain," Dís whispered. "Open your eyes, Frerin. Can you hear me? You are only dreaming."_

_Tortured brown eyes flew open. Tiny fingers trailed down Dís' face, tracing her nose and cheekbones, before Frerin shuddered and fell quiet._

"_Is he okay?" Kíli mumbled from the doorway as he rubbed his eyes._

"_Go to bed, Kíli. He was only dreaming."_

_Clumsily Kíli edged beside them. "I can stay up with him. Or he could sleep with me and Fíli."_

"_Fíli rolls over too much in his sleep," Dís reminded. "He fairly squashed Frerin the first time, remember?" She smile softly and brushed Kíli's bangs out of his eyes. Go to sleep, inùdoy. You can hold Frerin in the morning."_

_Pouting, Kíli stumbled back to his room. Dís sank down on the bed beside Dwalin and shuddered._

"_The same nightmare," she whispered. "Dwalin, he's never seen an Orc."_

"_We told the boys of Azanulbizar when they were wee lads," Dwalin reminded her. "Balin had to tell Frerin at some point. It's his heritage."_

"_He should have waited until Frerin was older!" Dís said sharply. "Dwalin, he's had nightmares since his first winter. Now he's seeing Orcs along with everything else!"_

"_Dís, this will be his life," Dwalin said softly. "We can't hide him from the past. One day our boys will have to fight, and we have to prepare them."_

"_Not Frerin," Dís hissed. "You've already made warriors of Fíli and Kíli. You will not take Frerin from me."_

* * *

(TA 2928, 13 years before the Quest. Frerin is 29)

The slump in Frerin's shoulders and his slow trudge told Bilbo everything he needed to know. "You spoke to Bell, didn't you?"

Shakily, Frerin laid an orange rose on the table. "She said I'm too young for her." His voice wavered. "She said I'm just a boy."

"Oh, Frerin!" Bilbo whispered. He had seen the changes in Bell as she turned thirty. The impishness had left her eyes and she walked with more grace, with the wistfulness of a girl who looked back and knew her childhood would soon fall away.

Frerin still looked like he was eighteen.

"Am I that different?" Frerin asked desperately. "I'll never fit in with them, will I? I'll be left behind, and they'll all have children of their own and I'll still be … still…" He shuddered and clasped his hands behind his head, dreading the future.

"Frerin…." Bilbo shook his head sadly, wishing he could offer comfort and finding none. "I'm so sorry."

With a strangled sob Frerin slumped at the table, staring at the rose. He curled his hand around it, looking for a moment like he wanted to crush it in despair. Then his fingers fell lax and he set it reverently by the teapot.

Quietly Bilbo cleared his throat. "Tea, then?" he asked softly.

Frerin nodded.

Two weeks later the trader wagons rolled back into town. Red listened sympathetically before directing Frerin over to an aged silver trader. The broad-bearded, iron muscled Dwarf from the Broadbeam tribe glanced over the lad briefly and scoffed.

"No more than a bairn. Put away these fantasies of yours, lad. You'll be ninety soon enough, and then you can pursue a proper Dwarven wife."

"Ninety?" Frerin gasped.

"Well, look at it this way," Red said chirpily, "You'll be an adult at eighty, and then you only have to wait ten more years before taking a wife. Or, if you get impatient, you can just –"

"No Dwarf with honor takes a lass without a ceremony," the other Dwarf growled. He glowered at Red until the younger Dwarf cringed away. "I don't know where you've been raised, _gille baoth_, but you'll not tarnish the innocent with your barbarism."

He turned to Frerin and nodded encouragingly. "Don't listen to this rabble. You'll reach your adulthood by forty, not to fear. Wait until you come of age, then take a wife. The years will go by swiftly."

With a last scowl at Red, the Dwarf returned to his trade.

"Snobby old codger," Red muttered. "He's as barbaric as an Orc tramp."

"Perhaps we should listen to him," Bilbo said breezily, delighted to hear advice from a "civilized" Dwarf. "After all, isn't it said that the elders have the best wisdom to offer?"

Red scowled, flipped a silver bead and caught it midair, then stalked away.

"Don't worry," Bilbo said, patting Frerin's shoulder. "Who knows; by the time you turn ninety, there might be a fine, upstanding Dwarven family that rolls through town. You never know what the future holds."

He said nothing of his own inner turmoil. By the time Frerin turned ninety, Bilbo would likely be dead.

* * *

(Present Day, TA 2941. Frerin is 42)

"Do I have to go?" Frerin whispered, balking in the doorway. He fiddled with the clumsy metal beads from his childhood, nearly yanking his braids loose.

"Frerin, you've been waiting for this for thirty years," Bilbo said kindly. "I think it's time you were reunited with your family."

Frerin gave him a wounded look. "What if I don't want to leave?"

"None of that now." Bilbo shook his head, refusing to think. This was what Gandalf had warned him about. Hiding Frerin from them would be cruel and disastrous for them both. "Come on, Frerin. They're waiting."

He all but dragged Frerin into the hall. The voices had doubled, newcomers arguing with those already present. Frerin skittered back until Bilbo prodded him into the open.

Instantly the bickering ceased. Two new Dwarves, dark and golden and fiercely armed, stared with open-mouthed dismay. Or was it awe? The golden one clapped a hand to his mouth as though fearful something would break free. The darker slowly approached, his eyes lost and desperate. He cried out sharply and ran forward, clasping his arms around Frerin.

"You're alive! Fíli – Fíli it's him. It's really him! He's – he's –"

He was sobbing, clutching Frerin with unbreakable strength, unable to speak as tears ran into his mouth. Bilbo hung back, biting his fingers to remain silent. He knew who this one was. The hair was raven black and he was a foot taller than Frerin, but there was no mistaking the cries of an older brother.

Fíli needed only the dark one's confirmation before he bolted between them. The dark brother stepped aside, furiously scrubbing his face with his sleeve while Fíli hovered, brushing Frerin's lopsided braids and studying his face with baited hope. Frerin was nearly hyperventilating, but he managed to whisper a soft, "Fía?"

"I'm so sorry!" Fíli gasped, flinging his arms around the smaller Dwarf and kissing his temple. "I thought you were lost. I never thought you could have traveled so far."

The dark one was pushing between them again, his intense, fiery eyes memorizing Frerin; studying him; frantically confirming what he needed to know.

"Give Dwalin a moment, lads," Balin said quietly.

Immediately the two stepped aside, flanking Frerin with dutiful protection. Brothers, the three of them. '_Kí and Fía?_' Bilbo wondered. _Or is the dark one__ Kífí?_

"My boy," Dwalin said huskily, his voice shaking as he stepped forward, afraid to touch the bairn. "If you remember anything – anything at all of what you left ... The smallest memory would be enough for me."

Frerin swallowed convulsively, blinking back tears. "I remember you, _Adad!_" He lunged into Dwalin's arms, burying his face in his father's chest. "I remember!"

"Thank you!" the dark one whirled around, mindless of the fresh saltwater tracking his cheeks. "Thank you for finding him!"

Bilbo twitched, trying to say something polite and unable to manage a sound. He feared that if he opened his mouth, he would beg them to take their brother home but by all means, leave his dear Frerin behind.

"My brother and I will always be in your debt," Fíli added, clapping the dark one's shoulder. "This is Kíli, and my name is Fíli. We are at your service."

"Bilbo Baggins at yours," Bilbo stuttered faintly.

Frerin seemed to have broken away at some point and he dragged Dwalin forward, glancing rapidly between him and Bilbo. "This … this is my Adad, Bilbo," he said softly. "Adad, this is …. This is Bilbo Baggins."

There was such meekness in the quiet voice, as though Frerin knew he would soon have to choose which family was victorious and which was left behind.

"Dwalin son of Fundin, at your service," the giant Dwarf rumbled gratefully.

"Is... is Amad...?" Frerin dared to whisper.

"Alive!" Kíli cried out.

"Alive and missing you," Fíli said at the same time.

Frerin shivered and ducked against Dwalin, hiding his tears. He looked so awkward and alone, enveloped by three loved ones who were but strangers to him. Bilbo knew that would have to be remedied at once.

"Supper, then," he said with forced calm, clapping his hands. "Fíli, Kíli, would you please have Frerin show you where the pantry is. I wasn't preparing for such a crowd."

The boys' eyes glowed and they bustled around their brother, pestering him with sudden questions and exclamations of, "Just wait till Mum hears about this!" Frerin looked back at Bilbo, torn between anxiety and delight, before he vanished between his taller siblings.

"You've done us a service we can never repay," Dwalin said as he watched them through misty eyes.

"Um…. Yes, well... Plenty of time for services later," Bilbo said with a haphazard smile. "There is ale in the pantry, and if you would be so kind as to tell your sons to get their dirty boots off the floor!"

He shouted the last part as he saw Fíli and Kíli tromping back with muddied coats and swords still slung across their backs.

"No! No, this will never do! Coats off, boots by the door – if you wipe them on the furniture, I will send for Lobelia at once – take those swords off and put them in the side room. I don't want them anywhere in the hall where I can see them."

Were all Dwarves so violent? Bilbo shuddered, imagining how Frerin must feel amongst such uncouth warriors. One glance at those gleaming blades was liable to throw him into a fit of panic.

"You heard him, lads," Dwalin said, nodding towards the hall. "Put those swords away."

"Not in Frerin's room!" Bilbo called sharply. "Mister Balin, would you please direct them to the green door on the far right? You'll find plenty of storage space there."

"You'll want to put out a few more plates," Balin warned serenely. "We're expecting the rest of our company."

"Company?" Bilbo gaped. "How many Dwarves are in a company?"

"Only thirteen."

"Well, lad," Dwalin said, clapping Frerin's shoulder with awing gentleness. "Shall we see what we can find in that pantry?"

Bilbo had to sit down a moment. "Thirteen Dwarves," he muttered. "How did….?"

His face clouded. "Gandalf!"

At that moment the doorbell rang.

* * *

_Gille Baoth - Foolish Boy_

**A.N. **Never listen to Red when it comes to Dwarf facts. Clearly he's been raised among Men for most of his life.

Updates are a bit slower thanks to working with elementary CHILDREN All Day Long. 8O Forget the Muses - feed the poor review-starved author who needs a nice, full inbox to come home to. ;)


	12. Finding Pieces of a Life

**Aw, **you reviewers are all so nice to me! I had a lovely batch of comments to sort through after a maniac day at the elementary school and I decided to send in this sweet, (mostly) fluffy chapter as a thank you. :)

* * *

"_Tho!" Frerin cackled and clapped his hands, sticking out his tongue to catch the sticky white drifts. "Tho! Tho!"_

"_Snow, Frerin," Fíli urged, trying to wrestle the wee bairn into his coat._

_Frerin wriggled free and jumped ahead, promptly tripping and rolling into a snowdrift. "Tho! Tho! Tho!"_

"_He's not going to get it." Laughing, Kíli grabbed the coat and ran to the bundle of scarf and wet hair. "Look, Frerin! Show big brother Kíli that he's your favorite. Put on the coat, Frerin!"_

"_Look, Frerin!" Fíli mocked, "It's a big, ugly warg trying to eat you!" With a sly grin he pushed Kíli face first into the snow and grabbed the coat. "All right, Frerin; fun times are over. Mum will have our heads if you catch cold."_

"_Run, Frerin!" Kíli spluttered, tackling his brother. "I'll hold him off!"_

_Giggling, Frerin rolled over and examined them from his new upside-down view. "F__í__a! Ka__í__!" He laughed again. "Co!"_

"_Yes, coat!" they shouted as one. Scrambling over, they both assisted their brother with the fur lined sleeves._

"_You know, he's twice as damp now as when he wasn't wearing his jacket," Fíli pointed out._

"_Sh!" Kíli hissed. "We're supposed to be encouraging this!"_

"_Or what, he'll pull his trousers off next?" Fíli drawled._

_Frerin tilted his head at them and then looked down._

"_No! No! No! No!"_

"_That's it," Fíli determined, scooping up the child and shoving him into Kíli's arms. "You're carrying him for the rest of the trip."_

"_I told Mum he was safer at home," Kíli grumbled. "Why do we always get blamed when something drastic happens?"_

"_You introduced him to toasted apples."_

"_He wasn't supposed to throw in the entire barrel! How was I to know he was that smart? He's five!"_

"_You were trying to lift Thorin's sword when you were four. Remember how that went? You dropped it on Oin's foot and Mum had to stitch the gash while he yelled loud enough to raise the barn owls in the roof. They flew straight into Thorin's face."_

_Kíli frowned. "I never understood that. If Oin is a healer…."_

"_Not everyone has a high pain tolerance."_

"_Hm. Your turn."_

"_Hey – Kíli! I told you, Frerin is yours for the rest of the trip."_

"_Take him back! My arms are sore. And the last time you held him, you let him drop. That gave you five minutes compared to my hour. You get to finish your time."_

"_I might drop him again, Kíli!"_

"_You won't. And if you do, Thorin will slowly kill you."_

"_This is extortion," Fíli grumbled as his brother strode ahead. "Can you believe this, Frerin? My own brother turned against me. The brother I toiled to raise with a good heart, a strong head and a wholesome spirit."_

_Kíli laughed outright. "Well, then you've already failed! Didn't you realize that when I used Ori's paints to redecorate Dwalin's head?"_

"_Not around Frerin, Kíli. We're not supposed to give him ideas – Thorin's orders."_

"_You give him ideas. I inspire him for life."_

"_You hear that, Frerin? This is exactly why you listen to big brother Fíli."_

"_Big brother Fíli is an oaf and a numbskull. Big brother Kíli is going to take you to all the fun, exciting spots where boring old Fíli doesn't want to go!"_

"_Big brother Kíli is going to stop this nonsense before he gets us both into trouble!"_

"_And big brother Fíli is just being a goat. Baa. Baa! Nay to play and fun. Baa! All the more work to be done."_

"_Kíli, you're being ridiculous."_

"_Fíli…."_

_They both looked down at the empty coat in Fíli's hands. Flopping it down, Fíli sighed and rolled his eyes. "Not again."_

* * *

(TA 2912, 29 years before the quest. Frerin is 13)

"I don't suppose you can make these any smaller?" Bilbo said tentatively, examining the iron horseshoes.

"Do I look like a toymaker, Bilbo? These are solid trottin' shoes, here. Made for real animules. Why, I've seen Hobbit lasses throw these all the time!"

"Yes, I understand that, but … he's not really that strong."

Round dark eyes peeked over the counter as Frerin stood on his tippiest-tip-toes to see the smith. Wilbur Boggins bent low and adjusted his glasses. "Well, bless my soul. It's not a Hobbit lass after all!"

"No, it's a Dwarf," Bilbo said patiently. "And as you can, see, he's not very … erm…" He glanced down at Frerin's thready arms and shrugged in question. "Do you have anything smaller? He wants to play with the other children, but it's not easy when he has to use both hands just to carry a horseshoe."

"Hm, that is a problem," Wilbur said. He stroked his chin in thought. "Give me a few days. I'll think of something."

"Thank you." Bilbo smiled. "I'll be happy to – Frerin? Frer – where did he go?" He circled expectantly, searching for a child that had hidden in the nearest tool chest. "Frerin?"

"Oye! Get out of there!" Wilbur cried in horror. "You'll kill yourself!"

Frerin backed away from the forge, his face glowing cherry red. He looked around for the source of trouble and then held up a pair of small tongs. One of Red's beads glowed like a cylinder holly berry. Again Frerin searched the forge until he found the anvil. He pattered over and held the tongs over it, then looked at Wilbur expectantly.

"Well, bless my soul," Wilbur said in astonishment. "You've a forging Dwarf."

"Frerin, get out of there!" Bilbo scolded, apologizing to Wilbur even as he herded the miscreant away. "I'm terribly sorry about this, Wilbur. I'll leave him with a friend next time. I'll –"

"No need to bother yourself, Bilbo." Wilbur waved off his concerns. He crouched beside Frerin, pushing aside the bronze hair and frowning in sympathy when he saw the glum face. "You want your bead fixed, don't you?"

Frerin motioned opening the tongs with his hands. "Tway?"

"He means 'try,'" Bilbo translated.

"You want me to try fixing that for you?"

Shuffling his foot, Frerin chose to stare at the floor.

"Ah," Wilbur said knowingly, "You want a hand in it yourself. Just like I was when I was a fauntling, rascalling around in my old gaffer's workshop. Come on then, lad – if it wouldn't trouble you, Bilbo. I'd just be borrowing him for a bit. Never had an apprentice."

"You … you would teach him?" Bilbo said, mystified.

"If you're worried, I can promise he'll be well protected," Wilbur assured. "Might get the occasional scrape or burn, but he'll get used to it. Why, look at the lad! He's grown up among forges all his life, I wager!"

Frerin pattered up to Bilbo and tugged the leg of his trousers. "Tway?" he lisped pleadingly.

Bilbo sighed and knelt beside the bairn. "You could get hurt," he warned. "Forging isn't easy. There's lots of hot metal and sharp things that will cut your little hands."

Nodding frantically, Frerin tapped his hands, looked at them and shrugged. "For. Fwen for."

"He means to forge." Bilbo wasn't sure he liked the idea, but it felt right. Frerin belonged in the cheery red glow of the coals and clanging that epitomized his race. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but … would you teach him?"

"It'll be a pleasure," Wilbur said gladly. He smiled thoughtfully. "You're not well like your father Bilbo. You've more of an open heart. Bagginses… well, they don't always have the best reputation." He looked down thoughtfully and then shook his head with a smile that was only half-joking. "Don't grow out of it."

Bilbo smiled crookedly, his anxiety growing as he surrendered Frerin over to the blacksmith. "Look after him, please," he begged softly. "He's so small."

"He'll be safe," Wilbur assured. He waved his hammer in salute. "He's in good hands."

_Good hands…_

Eleven years later, Frerin's apprenticeship seemed more like an everyday hobby. His hands were still clumsy and shaky, Wilbur complained, and he had yet to touch anything pointier than a letter opener. Still, he relished the days when he was left alone to dream up his own inventions. A few of them had finally surrendered to the hammer's blow and now decorated Bilbo's living room. There was a poorly twisted crown, a picture frame with a painting of Bilbo's Hobbit hole in summer (where the painting had come from, Bilbo did not know, and Frerin had no intention of sharing his secrets), a music box hat that played a haunting, ancient melody (or would have, if it had been tuned properly), and a brass harp with bowstrings for plucking (no one used it, so proper strings were hardly necessary).

Frerin was safely stowed away at the forges for the day, and Bilbo thought it was a fine opportunity to catch up on his reading.

More specifically, the reading of Frerin. The only window he had into his boy's tortured soul was the collection of odd dreams Frerin had begun recording after his twenty-second birthday. The more he recorded, the more the dreams seemed to stick, until he complained that he remembered a fantasy life better than his childhood.

How Bilbo seethed at Gandalf, and wished those memories could remain fantasy. "Confounded, meddling wizards," he muttered, turning a page. "Why can't they leave well enough alone?"

He never liked what he read.

"_It is autumn…" _the entry read, and Bilbo never failed to wonder at the strictly formal tone Frerin used in his writing, _"…And there are leaves crunching under my feet. I'm hunting someone. She flits on starlight wings and I can never catch her. She jumps me instead, and we roll in the leaves, laughing, while she swats at my face until I cry 'I surrender!' She is small and dressed like royalty – we both are. Her eyes are deep blue, impish and yet proud. She is familiar to me, and in my dream I know her as 'sister.'_

"_She and I have a brother, who looks very much like her, but we are not the same. None of us are alike, but at least she and our brother have something in common. They look like one another, and they both have snappy tempers. I'm not strong enough, my brother tells me. I am Orc fodder to be picked off because I am weak. I know I have screamed at him before, and he has laughed. I remember punching him for the insult. His blood ran down his face and my fist and we stared at one another, before Father began shouting. I ran, and my brother chased me down. I'm glad I woke before he caught me._

"_The dream changes, as it always does, and I'm sitting in the dark in the Halls of the Kings. It is late, I think, because no one disturbs the silence. Only my mother, who is an odd one to see, because I know in reality she is no relation of mine. My real Amad looks like the sister who throws leaves in my hair._

"_In the dream my mother-who-is-not sits beside me and rubs her thumb over my circlet. There is a tarnished stain there from times before, but I never throw it away. It keeps her near. She says something to me, but I don't remember the words when I wake. I only know that she makes me feel like not all days are stormy._

"_I want to wake after this, because I know where the dream is headed. The ceiling vanishes and there is smoke rising against the blackest night. My hands are frozen stiff in the snow, but they still feel pain."_

The writing turned jagged and forceful. Here Bilbo stopped. He had read parts of this passage before, and it had sickened him until he could not touch any literature for days. Flipping the page, he gulped his tea and began anew.

"_There is an older Dwarf before me – my father, I assume, as there is familiarity there. Perhaps I am wrong – there are two elder Dwarves in my dreams, and I always mix them up. Whoever he is, I know him, and he rules over me and my brother._

"_He shouts something in my face, but the words are hazed and surreal. I think he is angry that I'm not listening. This dream morphs into Bilbo complaining to me that I have let a spider die in the tea. I don't think I should drink anything with extra honey before bed."_

Bilbo chuckled and remembered past hyperactive activities. "Cheeky goblin managed to find the hidden cupboard after all."

"_There is a full moon in the sky,"_ the next entry read. _"Cold wind whips my cheeks and my sister is imploring me to come inside, as it is late and not-mother worries for me. I tell her to listen to the wind, and how oddly it shrieks._

"_It is … difficult to describe what happens next. A shadow swoops over us and I am thrown back by fire and rock, and yet I do not die. My face burns as I stare at the monstrosity lunging over us, but I'm not afraid. I want to fly with the dragon. I want to feel his freedom as he escapes the world and everything belonging to Middle Earth._

"_There are screams and panic, and I'm told to help restore order among those who are running. I don't know what I am doing, and someone winds up dragging me out with the crowd. I search the skies, hoping the dragon will return. I want to talk with him. I feel like I know his heart, and he in turn could understand me._

"_I mention this to my sister, and my brother overhears. He pulls me upright and shouts in my face. I have no desire to write what he says. He is furious, and all I can understand is that I am very afraid, but not of dragon fire. Not-mother separates us. There is no comfort for me, because I know he will be back. Tomorrow, the dream after that – within minutes, perhaps. I don't know. My sister sits beside me, and the dream changes again._

"_It rains and I'm sitting outside the mountain. I can say The Mountain because there is only one of its kind, and it is home to me. I like the rain. It soothes and calms me, but it doesn't chill._

"_The rain turns to ash, falling inside my mouth with the taste of blood and –"_

"I'm back! Bilbo?"

"Here!" Bilbo called, hiding the diary behind him.

Frerin strode inside, grinning as he held up a wind-up-canary. "It doesn't work," he said bashfully. "Messed up the gears somehow."

Bilbo smiled and pointed to the mantle over the fire. "Still plenty of room up there."

Setting it beside the clock, Frerin stared at it in disappointment. "I feel like I should be getting better at this."

"You will in time," Bilbo assured.

Shrugging, Frerin checked the clock. "Dinner yet? I came home early so I could check on the pollywogs. It looks like it'll rain. They'll like that."

"I'm sure," Bilbo said, exaggerating a yawn. He tucked Frerin's diary into his armchair. Later it would join the others in his mother's glory box.

"I'm not sure why I like rain so much," Frerin muttered. "Do you think I was born part frog?" He grinned at his own joke, then stiffened he heard the first droplets hit the roof. Looking side-ways at Bilbo, he waited all of three seconds before dashing outside.

"Wait! You forgot your … coat." Sighing, Bilbo set a fresh kettle over the fire before hurrying back to his armchair. He pulled the book free and leafed to his place, skipping the Orc dream.

"_If I can do something right, it's forging. I make tiny things – birds that sing and watches and chains like silken thread. Not-father sees these things and my brother's swords, and he approves of both. It swells in my chest until I think I will explode with laughter one day. My sister tries her hand at forging, too. Sometimes she and my brother compete with one another…."_

* * *

(Present day 2941. Frerin is 42)

The next Dwarf to enter was one that Bilbo recognized. "Norman!" he cried. Or was it 'Normi?' It had been a decades since he had seen the Dwarf, but the hair was unmistakable.

"Nori," Dwalin corrected gruffly.

"But, I know this lad," Nori said with perturb, glancing from Frerin to Dwalin. He reached for the fourth braid in Frerin's hair and tugged one of the beads. "I gave him this when he was a wee thing. You mean to say he was your bairn?"

"You – you know each other," Bilbo said, looking rapidly between the Dwarves. He rubbed his hands over his face. Everyone seemed to be acquainted with Frerin. "_Cousins to the fifth generation…"_

"You mean you saw him?" Dwalin said, aghast. "Why did you never tell us?"

"The circus brat introduced him as 'Rabbit,'" Nori grumbled. "How was I to know he was a relation of yours? I was … singularly detained when he was born."

"When who was born?" piped in a balmy voice as a sixth Dwarf entered. He flipped his floppy hat in the air and bowed at the waist. "You must be our burglar! Bofur at your service, and this is my cousin Bifur."

"Oh – no, not good," Bilbo stammered, looking at the crazed look in Bifur's eyes. "No, this will never…." He glanced rapidly at Frerin, who had ducked away from the commotion and was carrying a daunting stack of old, dusty glass plates.

"Not those," Frerin snapped, imitating Bilbo's best "trouble-glare" when Fíli began setting out Belladonna's china. "Those are special. I need to wash these first."

"Oh, we'll take care of them," Fíli said impishly. He grabbed the entire stack and tossed it to Kíli, who promptly ducked, slid and neatly cradled the rattling dishware. Frerin gawped. Sliding into a chair, he rubbed his dazzled head and resorted to staring at his forlorn teacup.

"Excuse me," Bilbo said hastily. He grabbed a biscuit and a cake and pressed them into Frerin's hands. The Dwarfling blinked in confusion and Bilbo asked softly, "Would you rather go to your room for a while?"

Frerin shook his head, his smile pained. He put the biscuit aside and pocketed the sweet. "I'm not really hungry. Maybe I should just –"

"Thorin!"

There was a clatter of glass before Fíli and Kíli raced from the kitchen, slamming into the dark haired figure in the doorway. He grunted and fell into the doorpost, barely having a chance to open his mouth and demand release before Fíli and Kíli were dragging him forward.

"It's him! Gandalf was right, it's our brother!"

"Did you send a raven to Mum, yet?"

"He's taller than before. Can you still recognize him?"

"Kíli and I will fill you in on the details."

"Say something, Uncle! He's going to think that –"

"Wait a moment, wait a moment!" Bilbo shouted above the noise. He held out his hands, glaring at the gabble of Dwarves wandering through the door. "Fíli and Kíli. This is your uncle, I take it?"

They fervently nodded.

"Then, step away," Bilbo said, shooing them back with his hands. "Give him a moment."

Something niggled at his brain, telling him he should be angry. He was too occupied with the newcomer to notice.

This was a Dwarf in command. The other Dwarves hushed reverently around him, waiting for a single word. Fíli's posture straightened a little more and Kíli had an awed look in his eyes that was uncannily like Frerin.

Glinting blue eyes, hardened and authoritative, softened just enough that Bilbo thought he glimpsed compassion in Thorin's bearing. The Dwarf tentatively placed a hand on Frerin's shoulder and then pulled him close, resting his forehead against the younger's before he clasped him into a tight embrace. Frerin glanced at Bilbo uncertainly. Panic lingered in the tight lines on his face.

Suddenly name registered with Bilbo. _Thorin._

"You're Thorin," he said, his voice more grievous than he had intended.

Thorin looked up, noticing his host for the first time. "_This_ is our burglar?" he said to Dwalin.

"He is your burglar, and if you think you will have any chance of leaving with Frerin, you will have to accept his help whether your desire it or not." Gandalf stooped to enter and looked upon the awkward gathering, nodding in approval.

Seething, Bilbo pushed past Thorin and glared up at the wizard. "Gandalf. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I told you before, some of his family might still be alive," Gandalf said. "I only put the pieces together recently, when I saw Kíli and learned they were missing a _brother_. Thirty years lost, in fact, beginning in the Fell Winter."

"And you never warned me they were coming!" Bilbo hissed.

"You would have learned soon enough," Gandalf said gently. "I did not want to disturb either of you too soon. When I learned Thorin was undertaking his quest, well… you were the first apt Hobbit to come to mind."

He lowered his voice for Bilbo's ears alone. "Frerin is heir to the Lonely Mountain the same as Fíli and Kíli. You cannot deny him his birthright, Bilbo. This is the only way that I knew you would be allowed to follow him. Dwarves have no need for the company of outsiders."

"You should have warned me," Bilbo whispered. "If not me, then at least Frerin. Look at him, Gandalf! He wasn't prepared for this. He's scared of his own family."

Fíli and Kíli shifted uncomfortably in the background, and Dwalin nervously rubbed his fist. Frerin avoided looking at anyone. He edged away from Thorin, pinching the skin on his hand as though he might wake any moment.

"Bilbo, would you have been any more prepared if I had warned you years in advance?" Gandalf rationalized. "You always knew this day might come."

Frowning fiercely, Bilbo stepped back and gestured roughly at the table. "Well, supper should be served while it's hot. Everyone needs to take their boots off." He kept his eyes on Gandalf, surprised at his own calm. "After that, _Gandalf_, you have a lot of explaining to do."

* * *

**(Finale** **to Fíli and Kíli's disaster)**

"_You know, if you weren't spending so much time pretending to be a sheep, none of this would have happened!"_

"_How is this my fault? You were the one who dropped him!"_

"_I didn't drop him – he slid free."_

"_And you didn't notice."_

"_Have you seen for yourself by now - he's tiny! He hardly weighs more than the fur."_

"_How are we going to explain this to Mum….?"_

_Fíli sighed. "We have got to get a nametag for him."_

"_To say what? 'Please return our errant brother, we have lost him again and our mother will kill us if we don't get him home in time for supper?' We're already the laughing stock of the town, Fíli!"_

"_So we'll say it with more dignity. I don't know – it was your idea to keep us out of trouble somehow."_

"_We're already in trouble. The best thing to do is find Frerin quickly so that Thorin doesn't find out before Mum!"_

"_Who are you looking for?"_

_Fíli and Kíli gulped at the droll sarcasm. They turned as one and cringed. Fíli slapped his forehead._

"_How long?"_

_Thorin shrugged and looked down at Frerin, who cackled like a miscreant puppy and patted his hands on Thorin's white coated sleeve. "Tho! Tho!"_

"_Is there something you boys want to tell me?"_

* * *

**I shamelessly invented "Wilbur Boggins" because I figured there had to be a reason Kíli was so adamant about finding a "Boggins." Clearly the poor chap was misdirected somehow.**


	13. Dreams, If You Will Stay

**Yay!** Finally the site lets me post!

* * *

"_Baffa bubbas!"_

"_If he was this excited about soap, you'd think he'd be clean for at least part of the day," Fíli grumbled. He rolled his soaked sleeves higher, then spluttered as Frerin splashed water in his face. "Hold still!"_

"_Look Frerin!" Kíli encouraged, holding a wooden horse high above the bairn's head. "All right, Fíli; he's distracted."_

"_Excellent!" Rapidly Fíli smeared a softer soap through the silky bronze hair. "How did you get so filthy?"_

"_I told him to stay away from ponies," Kíli griped. He was covered from head to toe with suds. "He got nicked by a hoof and fell into the manure pile. He's lucky his head wasn't caved in!"_

"_Only you would land in a manure pile." Fíli sighed at Frerin. He glanced sideways at Kíli. "Well, you may not be the only one…."_

"_I was two, and Ori was chasing me."_

"_He was trying to change your diaper, fool." _

"_He was scary!"_

"_Only you would be traumatized by Ori. He knits! What is so terrifying about that?"_

"_He was the only one who changed my diapers. He was a menace."_

"_He saved your mother's sanity. You should be grateful."_

"_Do you think he'd be nice and give Frerin a bath next time?"_

"_Do you want him to flee Ered Luin? We need all the allies we can get!"_

_Frerin cackled and slapped his hands into the water, spraying both of his brothers with foam._

_Flicking off his hands in defeat, Kíli spat out soapsuds and glared at the tiny imp. "Next time, we beg Thorin to help us."_

_Years later, on a steaming afternoon in late summer, Dis heard the dull clomping of her middle son's boots. Kíli flicked the grime off his hands and silently kicked off his boots before trudging inside. _

"_All finished?" Dis asked._

"_Cleanest stables in Ered Luin," Kíli assured her. "Flossy bit me, though."_

"_Any blood?" _

_Kíli shook his head. "I'll get cleaned up."_

"_Lunch will be ready when you're finished."_

_Kili nodded mutely. Gone were the flippant remarks and griping about how Fíli was allowed to travel to the Iron Hills with Dwalin, or how Frerin had offered a sugar cube to Khuhaj (again) and nearly had his hand snapped off (for the third time in a week). Dis trembled as she stared at the table, imagining her thirteen year old curled in a chair, right where he should be._

_Kíli paused in the hall, unwittingly following Dis' gaze. "I miss bath time," he said quietly._

_He slipped from the room, and the house was silent again._

* * *

(TA 2912, 27 years before the Quest. Frerin is almost 13)

"Kífí."

Bath times were forlorn and all too quiet. Frerin poked at bubbles, looking like his world shattered every time one popped.

"Kífí."

"Oh, Frerin," Bilbo murmured, lathering a gentle shampoo into the Dwarfling's hair. "I wish I could bring them back."

"Kífí."

Frerin sighed, drowned his toy dragon, then held it up and watched soap suds drip from the elongated nose. "Thmaug." He dropped it again. "Thmaug deah."

_I should write a book,_ Bilbo thought with dull humor. _How to translate the mono-syllables of Frerin._

"Thmaug" was apparently "Swamp", since "Dob" was "Dog" and "Sop" was "Sock" and "Mahg" was "Map." (Specifically, a map with everything from Bree to Mirkwood forest, which Frerin spent a great deal of time studying.)

"You know, it's not really nice to drown a dragon," Bilbo said. "At least he should have a valiant death, such as fighting against Elves or Men." Not Dwarves. That kind of death was too real for Frerin.

Frerin shrugged listlessly and dropped the dragon again. "Thmaug deah."

"Oh, dear." The child was having one of his mournful fits again. Bilbo wasn't sure if it was his imagination that Frerin grew more sullen when the sun flaked into snow. "Rinse time. Close your eyes."

One fluffy towel, a change of pajamas and a squeaky-clean dragon later, and Frerin was cuddled in the armchair, holding up a book for Bilbo to read.

"Frost Dragons of the North?" Bilbo said. "Isn't that a bit advanced for you?"

Frerin squeezed into the side of the chair, grinning as he waited for Bilbo to join him.

"All right," Bilbo acquiesced, sitting down and making room for the Dwarfling to wriggle onto his lap. He opened the book and allowed Frerin to begin by pointing out his favorite pictures.

"Abad," Frerin said, tapping the snow covered mountain. He squealed and peaked his hands above his head. "Abad! Abad!"

"Yes, it is a mountain," Bilbo agreed, wondering how much Khuzdul he would pick up by the time Frerin was thirty. "What else is there, Frerin?"

"Tho!" Frerin pointed to the drifting flakes and then translated, "Iklal."

Which could mean snow, or ice, or anything cold, for all that Bilbo knew. He wished he had a more reliable tutor.

"And what about that?" he asked, pointing to the dragon.

"Uslukh izgil!" Frerin paused, tilted his head, then held up his toy dragon. "Abraz. Uslukh abraz."

"Red?" Bilbo guessed. "A red dragon?"

"Dabahn!" Frerin flung out his arms, nearly ripping the page with his toy.

"All right, then." Bilbo nodded, writing down the words in his notebook. He wondered whether "Izgil" meant 'frost' or 'silver.' He would have to find more research materials.

Given Frerin's enthusiasm, dragons didn't seem half as bad as the legends warranted. In fact, the thought of an encounter with one was almost fascinating.

* * *

(Present day, TA 2941)

Supper was a grueling, sober event. Bilbo's well stocked larder plummeted to not-even-a-potato, and Thorin's nephews scarfed down everything that was remotely sweet. Bilbo nibbled on a biscuit, no longer hungry as plots for the future were discussed over his dining table. He kept losing sight of Frerin, for the Dwarf was – well, a _Dwarf_ compared to his siblings, and he kept disappearing among the throng of reaching arms.

_This is what you asked for,_ Bilbo thought ruefully. Elves and Dwarves and fantastic adventures…. He should have been content with meeting the trading wagons every spring.

"There is only one way to get past a dragon," Gandalf was saying. "Their hide cannot be pierced by axes or swords. Your only chance is to retrieve the Arkenstone and muster the seven Dwarf kingdoms."

"You said before that a small company could retake it," Thorin said.

Gandalf harrumphed into his pipe. "That was before we were discussing a live dragon. Smoke has been seen rising from the Lonely Mountain. We cannot take any chances."

"How do we know the Mountain has not been claimed already?" Thorin asked. Dread hushed the table.

"If forces of evil had taken it, you would know," Gandalf said quietly. "Now, then; we need a burglar, and a burglar I have offered."

"You mean Frerin," Bilbo said in a clipped tone. No Hobbit should be quite so bitter, he reflected, especially considering he had guests in his home. Still, he'd had a rather weary day and the thought of Frerin tramping across the wilds to face a dragon made him ill.

"Frerin is returning to his mother," Thorin said. "There is a party returning to the Blue Mountains. We will meet up with them in Bree, and he will be safely home before the end of spring."

"No, that can't -" Bilbo began to protest.

"No!"

Bilbo wasn't sure who was more startled at the reedy voice.

"Bless my beard," Bofur said. "He talks after all!"

Frerin stood, a sapling trying to hold his own against a strong wind. "I'm not going home. I'm going to Erebor."

"You can't even remember Erebor." Oin scoffed.

Frerin turned crimson with indignation. Before he could speak Thorin clapped his hand on the table, silencing the room. "He goes home. There is nothing more to discuss."

"Excuse me, there is everything to discuss!" Bilbo argued. "For one, Frerin is right here in the room. You can at least address him by name, now that you've finally found him. And I hardly think it is fair that you barge into his life only to shuffle him off to a place he hasn't seen for thirty years, just because you don't have the wits to take care of him."

"I'm not –" Frerin started.

"This is none of your concern, Master Baggins," Thorin said, glowering at the Hobbit. "Frerin is our family, not yours, and we will see to his protection."

"I'm trying –"

"He was very well protected here!" Bilbo enunciated, jabbing his index finger against the table. "At least until you lot showed up and upset everything for him."

"What would you know of it?" Dwalin said in a gravelly voice. "He is no blood kin of yours."

"I have raised Frerin for the past thirty years, and I –"

"Raised, yes!" Nori spoke up. "Among Halflings and Men-folk, and beardless tramps who know no more of their heritage than a cockroach!"

"What the lad needs is a proper upbringing," Oin emphasized grandly. "What is lost can still be salvaged."

"He is a prince of Erebor," Thorin dictated. "He returns with his kin."

"He is a child and a lost one at that!" Bilbo flung his hands into the air, exasperated. "You can't just barge in here and 'fix him!' He needs time – friends. You can't rip him from everything he knows just because –"

"Enough!" Frerin slammed his fist on the table, flipping Fíli's plate across the room. He stared at them, breathing hard. "This is _my_ decision. I'm going to Erebor. You can take me with you or send me home, but if you send me back I'll run away and make the journey by myself – and you know I'll try! I won't be left behind."

He stood stiffly, trembling and yet glowing with bold satisfaction. The other Dwarves stared.

"Did you just … speak four coherent sentences?" Kíli said rudely.

"He's all grown up," Fíli murmured.

Thorin shook his head. "It is out of the question."

"Now, Thorin," Balin said, holding out his hand peaceably, "I think perhaps the lad is right. He's forty now; old enough to make his own decisions."

"He is not –"

"Thorin." Something in Balin's keen eyes made even the stubborn, imperious Dwarf reconsider. "You can't protect him. Not like before."

Bilbo watched Thorin's conviction deflate. A silent exchange was passed between the Dwarves. Kíli tried not to twitch.

"On his own head be it," Thorin said at last. "Dwalin? He is your son."

"Am I to have no say in this?" Bilbo protested.

"Aye, if the lad wants it," Dwalin said proudly. "He is of Durin's blood."

"Mum is going to want to know about this…." Fíli mumbled.

"Can I at least –"

Thorin cut Bilbo off. "It is settled, then. Get him a contract."

"Contract? Contract?" Bilbo huffed. "What is this, a business partnership?"

"For a share of the treasure," Kíli said. "It's all on paper, just in case Lord Dain or anyone else wants to argue the distribution."

"Frerin, can we discuss this for a moment?" Bilbo insisted. He rose and beckoned Frerin over to the kitchen. As soon as they were alone he whispered strongly, "What do you think you're doing? This isn't a family reunion in some picnic grove with fireworks and dancing! You're signing on for an adventure that could see you killed."

"It's _Erebor_," Frerin emphasized quietly. "Bilbo, it's my home."

The pieces slowly clicked. "The mountain," Bilbo realized. "_The_ Mountain. The one you were always looking for."

"I know it won't fix everything. _I know it,"_ Frerin said. "But I have to go back, Bilbo. Something is gone from my life, and I need to find it again."

"Frerin, you realize… you realize this is _Thorin_," Bilbo cautioned. "I know he's your…. He's your _uncle?"_

"We're not talking about dreams," Frerin said in a rush. "They're not real. I can't even think about that now, or I'm afraid I'll go mad. Bilbo, let me go with them. I can't stay here and wonder what I'm missing!"

"No, of course," Bilbo murmured, remembering the scrawled writing of a Dwarf who imagined himself a prince. "You need to see it for yourself."

"Just once," Frerin whispered. "Just once, and then I'll come home and everything will be normal again."

The Mountain had a chilling grip on his soul. Above family and the foster-father he held dear, Frerin had chosen the memory he barely knew existed.

"Let me go," he begged.

"Well, then," Bilbo said huskily, looking over his cozy home. "You'll need to bring your coat and hat, and I won't let you leave without a notebook. I'll send word to Mister Boggins that we will be gone for a while. He'll see to my affairs."

"You're coming!" Frerin exclaimed in relief.

"Well, they did say they needed a burglar," Bilbo said breezily. "I think I could do the job."

Pocketing tomatoes during his tweens counted as proper experience in thievery, right?

He returned to the table and looked Thorin straight in the eye. "We will _both_ sign the contract."

* * *

"What did you tell them?" Bilbo asked Gandalf later. He glanced back at Frerin, who currently being assailed with questions from Fíli and Kíli.

"Why do Hobbits have such abominable feet?"

"Do you know how lost Mum has been without you?"

"Do they all pack so little in their larders, or were we just late?"

"Are you sure you're ready for this, Frerin? No one is making you go."

"How much do they know?" Bilbo repeated. "About Frerin?"

"They know he is their brother, and that he has been missing for too long." Gandalf innocently puffed a cloud of smoke.

"Do any of the Dwarves know about … the reborn?" Bilbo asked even softer. "How much are they aware of?"

Gandalf's flinty eyes shot towards him. "Nothing. As far as they know, Frerin is a missing child and nothing more."

Bilbo slumped in relief. "You didn't tell them."

"I think it wiser that they remain ignorant of the past, Bilbo Baggins." It was as much a warning as a reassurance. "Dwarves are not like the people of the Shire. No such burden should be laid on any of them – including Frerin."

"Especially Frerin," Bilbo agreed. "This Thorin…." He swallowed tightly. "He's more than a relation, isn't he? Besides Uncle."

"That is for Frerin to divulge," Gandalf said gravely. He gave one last puff and smiled. "I suggest you pack quickly, Bilbo, and prepare for a good night's rest. You'll need it."


	14. Time Never Cares Just What We Do

_Thorin ran his hand over the circlet sometimes, rubbing his thumb into the groove where their mother's thumb had tarnished the metal. "Frerin," he could hear Mother whisper, letting her son choose comfort while Thrain demanded war._

"_He is no more than a petulant boy!" he remembered Father shouting. "He is no prince. If you wanted another daughter, you might have begged the Men of Dale for one of their children."_

_The circlet was all that Thorin had left of Frerin. His brother had been wearing it when the dragon attacked. When Thrain demanded their jewelry to sell for supplies, Frerin claimed he had lost it. Later Thorin had found it hidden under Dís' blanket. He had almost shown it to Thrain, just to spite his brother. Instead he had confronted Frerin himself, slapping him senseless and shaking him until Frerin cried and begged forgiveness._

_He had been angry then; bitter with the loss of their mother and rankled by the smallest things. His siblings grieved, too. The burning of their home and the endless trek wore down Frerin and silenced Dís, until Thorin held his sister every night and prayed she would survive the next day's march. He should never have lashed out with his temper. He should have protected them both._

_But Frerin was always there, bumbling and pathetic and utterly useless, until his presence alone infuriated Thorin. He sent him back to the healer's wagons so that he wouldn't have to look at him. By some miracle Frerin was never ill himself, though he looked like a sigh would blow him over. Although he never accused Thorin in words, bitter resignation burned in his eyes and he began to avoid his brother._

_Thorin was satisfied with the arrangement. Their people starved, and he had no time for guilt. Or for Frerin._

_Looking back on those dark, evil days, Thorin could only ask when he had allowed his heart to grow cold. He slid his hand from Frerin's circlet and closed the iron chest that preserved it. It was all he had left of his brother. That, and the memories of a sobbing, heartbroken boy, mirrored in the terrified eyes of a six-year-old._

_Fate had never been wiser. Or more cruel._

* * *

(TA 2912, 29 years before the Quest. Frerin is 13)

"Fow?"

"Yes, flowers!" Bilbo said, pressing Frerin's hands around the transplanted marigold. "We push it in the earth, see, and once it feels at home it will grow bigger and brighter than ever before."

"Fows," Frerin said wondrously. "Go fow?"

"Gold flowers?" Bilbo hoped he hadn't said 'grow.' "Hm, I suppose so. These are more orange than yellow, but I'm sure we can plant new ones next year. Do you prefer gold?"

Frerin shivered, shook his head vehemently and made a face. "Ack!"

He thrust out his hands, trying to catch a sleepy butterfly. "Boo! Boo, boo, bufah!" Eagerly he suggested, "Boo fow?"

"No blue flowers this year," Bilbo said regretfully, "But we do have pansies. Those are almost a bluish color."

"Buith!" Frerin said, enjoying the new word. "Buith, buith fows!"

"Well! If it takes so little to make the child happy, you might as well have asked, Bilbo!"

"And… you're back." Bilbo looked up and forced a pleasant smile. "What can I do for you, Lobelia?"

She humphed and curled her nose at the array of wilting flowers. "You're a poor gardener, Bilbo Baggins, if you think to plant them in full sunlight on a hot day like this."

"Actually, I planted them now because Frerin has been cooped inside for weeks because of the rain, and I am rather convinced he will vanish if he grows any paler," Bilbo said tartly. "Can I do anything for you?"

Lobelia sneered and plopped her basket down in front of Frerin. "Really, Bilbo! Is it too much to ask? Or has your Took-ish nonsense led you to believe you could magic these out of marigolds?"

Bilbo stared at the array of wildflowers, while Frerin squealed in delight. "Boo fow! Boo fow!"

The child tottered to his feet and hugged Lobelia's skirt. She scowled and looked away, reaching down to pat him on the head.

"Well… thank you very much, Lobelia," Bilbo said sincerely, not missing the irony that she had brought forget-me-nots. He mustered a kinder smile. "I'm sure Frerin would thank you properly, if he could say it."

"Amadnamad!" Frerin shouted boisterously.

"Hmph." Lobelia bent to arrange Frerin's collar, giving him a speedy peck on the cheek before straightening haughtily. "I'll be expecting my basket by tomorrow, Bilbo. There are blackberries along the slopes by my hole and I won't have my baking put off because of your tardiness."

"Yes, _Aunt_ Lobelia," Bilbo said, rolling his eyes. "I expect you'd like Frerin to come along with me?"

"As if you would leave him in the house to suffer by himself!" Lobelia spluttered. "Twelve o'clock, Mister Baggins."

She swung her umbrella pertly and clomped down the path. Bilbo sighed and gave Frerin his best _'I know what you're up to so don't bother hiding it_' glare.

"Just in time for luncheon. Guess who will be picking blackberries for _Amadnamad _while someone else eats cake?"

Frerin giggled.

* * *

(Present day, TA 2941)

"You don't need this… or this …. What is that?"

"Pocket handkerchief!" Bilbo snapped. "Give me that." He stuffed it into his waistcoat pocket, then grabbed Frerin's brass monstrosity. "And we can't go anywhere without a teakettle."

"What do you think this is, a traipse off to Rivendell?" Gloin argued. "We can't take all of that weight with us!"

"Tea, spare clothing, books, food, scissors –"

"The food and scissors you can keep." Gloin grabbed the heavy sack and dumped it over the table before shoving it back into Bilbo's hands. "Fill this with _real_ supplies. We leave before the sun crests the hills."

"Oh, bother it all!" Bilbo grumped, thrusting a thin book into his pack as soon as Gloin's back was turned. "Meddlesome Dwarves. Can't even make a proper cup of tea, I'll wager."

The brass monstrosity was going. Despite the clumsy, shoddy appearance, it was his most sturdy kettle. A voice inside reminded Bilbo that it was made by Frerin's wispy hands, and he did not have much longer to cherish these treasures.

Kíli bounded into the room with the frantic, haunted look that Bilbo had learned to associate with_, "Where is my brother!"_

"Where's Frerin?"

"My cousin Lobelia's," Bilbo said distractedly.

"But he's supposed to come with us!"

"He'll be back." Bilbo rolled his eyes and crammed another apple into Frerin's bulging sack. "He promised he would return within an hour."

"He's packed already?" Kíli's hand strayed over the apple, his eyes dark and troubled.

"Well, he was awake before the rest of you." Which was hardly surprising, considering that Bilbo's snug hole had nearly been shaken to pieces by the racket of thirteen Dwarves snoring.

"Where is Frerin?" Fíli tromped inside next, slinging his pack onto the floor next to Kíli's.

"Lobelia's. Would you please move those outside? I just swept, and I'd like to leave a respectfully clean house."

"What's the use?" Fíli wondered, even as he moved the packs. "It will only get dusty again."

"It won't," Bilbo said haughtily, "Because my cousin Lobelia will be coming over to clean for me. Frerin is already making arrangements with her. She will stay in Baggend until my return, and in exchange I won't have to worry about someone selling my furniture."

"You could always get more chairs," Kíli muttered. Bilbo wondered if all Dwarves were hopelessly ignorant when it came to antiques.

"Wait – no, don't touch that!" He hurried to the fireplace and slapped Thorin's hand away from Frerin's canary. "It's very fragile."

"Who made it?" Thorin asked, looking disgruntled at having been shooed aside by a Hobbit.

"It's Frerin's," Bilbo said frankly as he wrapped it in a spare piece of cloth. It would join the diaries in his mother's glory box, which would be locked lest Lobelia get her hands on them. "It doesn't sing, so I would thank you not to break the key trying to wind it."

"Who taught him to forge?"

Too much idle curiosity for Bilbo's taste. "My friend Wilbur Boggins."

"See!" Kíli hissed to his brother. "I told you there was a Boggins in the Shire!"

Thorin reached for the bird again. "He knows Dwarven craftsmanship?"

Bilbo paused. "Actually, Wilbur repairs rakes and shovels. He shoes ponies, too. Frerin came up with this on his own." He dodged Thorin's hand and found himself stuffing the bird into his own pocket, instead. "Key," he mumbled, fishing out the small key to his mother's glory chest. He bolted that quickly, suspicious of prying Dwarves.

"Is he here yet?" Kíli asked, pacing from the window to the door and back. "Maybe he's lost. There aren't wolves around here, are there?"

"Wolves? Thank heavens not!" Bilbo said in alarm. "Not since the Fell Winter." He shivered at the memory.

At that moment the door clicked open and Frerin slipped inside. Kíli gave a strangled sound of relief and darted forward, slinging an arm around his brother's shoulders.

"We almost thought we would have to leave without you!"

"Overprotective," Bilbo muttered. He could feel the imploring in Frerin's gaze and knew he should tell Kíli to give his brother some personal space, but it was impossible to scold any family who had just been reunited with their loved one. No, Frerin would have to establish boundaries on his own.

"All ready, Frerin?" Bilbo asked softly.

Tentatively ducking under Kíli's arm, Frerin nodded. Fíli and Kíli followed him like lost ducklings, though Fíli seemed to hold himself back with more reserve.

"Are those two always together like that?" Bilbo wondered.

"They grew up in hardship," Thorin said quietly. "They are loathe to be parted."

_Poor Frerin,_ Bilbo thought, and his mind immediately turned to, '_poor lads'_ as he watched Fíli and Kíli sign to one another, glancing helplessly at their younger brother.

"Well then," Bilbo decided, looking over his home one more time. "I suppose we can leave."

Frerin's mouth tightened with anxiety, even as his eyes brightened with anticipation. He grabbed for his pack, but Fíli was already there helping him with it.

"Not too heavy, is it?" Fíli worried, adjusting the straps so that it rode more easily on Frerin's narrow shoulders.

"I'm fine. I'm _fine_," Frerin said, brushing his hands away.

"Of course." Giving a clipped nod, Fíli hastily backed away. "I'll make sure the ponies are ready. Coming, Kíli?"

"Yeah, just a –"

"Kíli, let's go." Fíli glanced at Frerin and back to his brother, and Kíli understood.

"Fine," he mumbled. He stalked to the door and grabbed his weighted packs, pushing the door aside with his foot.

"And they said I packed too much," Bilbo grumbled. "How do they stagger around with all that bulk?"

"We are Dwarves, and this is not a short journey," Thorin said. "Be ready in a few minutes, Master Baggins." He turned to Frerin, hesitated, and then slowly reached out to clap the young Dwarf's shoulder. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

Frerin looked like a Hobbit lad still in his tweens as he adjusted his pack and nodded. "I'm ready."

His voice was a breathless whisper. Bilbo watched guardedly, unsure if the glint of compassion in Thorin's eyes outweighed the tremor that shuddered through Frerin. He didn't like it.

"Off you go, then," he said quickly. Relieved, Frerin bolted out the door. Bilbo turned to block Thorin's way. "Look, I know you're his … _uncle_," he said carefully, "But I have to say this: Frerin has spent thirty years getting used to the idea that all of you are … dead."

Thorin breathed in harshly, his fingers clenching around the pommel of his sword. He was probably imagining the grisly death of some Orc, but the gesture could easily be misinterpreted.

"Which is exactly why you need to stop doing _that_," Bilbo enunciated, jabbing his index finger at Thorin's hand. "He's not accustomed to violence. Now, you Dwarves may be fairly used to lopping off heads and skewering wolves, but Frerin is just getting used to the idea that he has a family at all. He doesn't need to be scared off."

"You think I would threaten him?" Thorin said, appalled.

"I think he already feels trapped," Bilbo said simply. "Yesterday we were preparing for a quiet evening. The next morning?" He flung out a hand in dismay. "We're hunting a dragon, saying goodbye to Bag End, travelling to who-knows-where with a bunch of strangers. This is going to disturb him greatly. You need to give him time, and you need to be patient."

"What would you know about my nephew," Thorin said in a low tone. "I was there when he was born. I held him when he screamed in the night. I know how to look after him."

"I'm sure," Bilbo said. "But this isn't your Frerin. It's been thirty years, Thorin. He's changed. You need to let me be the one to guide him until he's used to being around his family again."

"If I had wanted your help, I would have asked for it," Thorin said coldly. He brushed past Bilbo, closing the door soundly behind him.

"Well, that went well," Bilbo said tartly. He clapped his hands to his pockets, checking for his pipe and handkerchief. No use walking off without either of those. Briefly he scanned the room, memorizing it one last time.

The door flew open and Dori (or was the silver-haired one Ori?) rolled his eyes. "We leave _now_, Master Baggins!"

Breathing deeply, Bilbo nodded and took his first steps out the door, and away from his beloved Bag End. He had the dreadful feeling that he would not return for an uncomfortably long time.

He wondered if he or Frerin was more afraid.

* * *

**Interesting note:**_ Dís was nine years younger than Frerin. She would have been 10 years old when Smaug destroyed Erebor._


	15. Back to a Reason I Once Knew

**I wrote** this ahead of time, but now I have a cold and feel sorry for Kíli. :( Send him some love!

* * *

"_We couldn't - *cough* - couldn't - *cough cough*"_

"_He needs Oin. He collapsed outside."_

"_F – *cough* - Frerin."_

"_We'll find him. We'll find him."_

_Dís ran to her sons' room and threw the door open. "Bring him in here."_

"_Fee, stop!" Aggravated, Kíli threw off his brother's arm. "I'm not - *cough cough* - not –"_

"_You're sick. Stop trying to deny it." Stripping off his brother's coat, Fíli flung the sodden material to the floor. "I tried to bring him home. He wouldn't listen!"_

"_I thought I saw him," Kíli croaked. "Just – just –" He broke off in another bout of wet, rasping coughs. _

"_Fíli, run for Oin," Dís snapped. "Now!"_

"_Dwalin is bringing him," Fíli assured, lowering his brother onto the bed. _

"_We don't have time!" Kíli exclaimed, weakly shoving Fíli away. "It's snowing, Mum! He could be –" The next fit left him breathless, and he had no strength to fight when __Fíli pushed him down__._

"_We won't have any time if you kill yourself," Fíli murmured. "Lie still, Kíli. You're burning up."_

"_M'fine," Kíli argued. "Go find'im."_

"_Hush. Hush!" Dís brushed her son's damp bangs aside and laid a gentle kiss on his forehead. "Rest, Kíli. Your uncle will look for him."_

"_It's been three months," Kíli said, the rebellion washing from his eyes in a wave of hopelessness. "Mum, what if he never comes home?"_

"_Don't talk that way," Dís snapped. She helped Fíli pull off __Kíli's __boots and settled him in more comfortably. "There now, you've made yourself ill. Kíli, will you drive your poor mother to madness?"_

"_Find'im," Kíli mumbled, tossing his head fretfully. _

"_Fíli, we can't wait," Dís said, pressing her hand against __Kíli's hot cheek__. "Fetch me cloths and lukewarm water. He's caught himself a chill."_

"_Yes, Mum." Fíli bounded out of the room, leaving Dís alone with her middle son._

"_Kíli, please," she whispered, clutching his hand. "You've got to stop tearing yourself apart. I can't worry over you both. Please – just this once – try to be strong like your brother."_

_Kíli coughed thickly, and then bucked in a wave of nausea. Fíli ran into the room and set the bowl aside, grabbing his brother just in time to angle him over the bed before __Kíli __vomited. _

"_Ugh!" Dís hitched her skirts away, her concern mounting. She dumped the bowl of water and thrust it under Kíli's chin. "Hold him, Fíli. I'll get something to clean the floor."_

"_Dís?" _

_The voice at the door was all too welcome. Dís ran to greet her brother, desperate hope filling her when she saw him._

"_You're early. Was he there?"_

"_Dissy, I …."_

"_Thorin, __Kíli __needs it, he needs to see his brother!"_

_Thorin's shoulders slumped. Dís covered her eyes and turned to the fire._

"_I'm sorry, Dís. I –"_

"_Don't, Thorin. Please. Go – go check on Kíli. I need a moment."_

_He trudged away, burdened by a loss deeper than his own. Dís leaned her head against the mantle, digging her nails into her cheeks to stop the tears._

"_Frerin. Where is my little boy? What has happened to him?"_

* * *

(TA 2911, 40 years before the quest. Frerin is 12)

"Well, today's the day," Red announced proudly. "Snuffles the big, fat, stupid pig gets his ears pierced. Didn't I tell you we had a fat pig? I did tell you that."

"Yes, you did." Bilbo sighed, looking at the grunting mass of black and white patches.

"Yup, and today he gets a be-a-utiful gold earring." Red grinned and ruffled the pig's hair before kissing its nose. "Whadda you think, Frerin?"

The Dwarfling stuck his fingers in his mouth in awed silence.

"Uh-huh, that's what I thought. It just so happens that –"

"Change of plans," Kæzog said as he slipped between them and took Snuffy's leash. He flipped the earring into Red's hands. "Here, you can keep that."

Red stared, dumfounded, as the pig was led into a far off tent. Quickly he knelt and shielded Frerin's ears. Metal rang and a sharp squeal was cut short. Aghast, Bilbo covered his mouth.

"I don't – I don't think I'll be interested in supper tonight," Red said faintly. He turned green and blinked slowly, gathering his shattered composure.

"Oh my," Bilbo murmured. "Was that your pet?"

"Family pig," Red said whoozily. "Huh. Thought he'd stick around for a while longer."

Kæzog stuck his head out of the tent. "Shire Hobbit – looking to buy a ham shoulder?"

"I think I'll just sit this one out," Red said calmly, before his eyes rolled back and he fainted.

"No! No, thank you," Bilbo said, duly horrified by the barbaric scene. "We have plenty of bacon."

"Snuffa?" Frerin asked in confusion.

"Snuffy has gone on a very long journey," Bilbo said, glancing to the side. "I think Red will need to find another pig."

Tilting his head, Frerin studied the earring left on the ground. Before Bilbo could yank him away he snicked the sharp pin into Red's ear lobe.

"Yeaow!" Red screeched, leaping to awareness. "What bit me?"

"Weah," Frerin said, pointing to the Dwarf's ear. "Snowin' eaw. Weah eaw. Ah be-ah?"

"You pierced my ear? Are you a maniac, you little…." Red paused and felt the golden hoop. "Wow. You are a maniac. Dang smart one, too." He inspected his reflection in one of the wagon panes. "Huh. I think I could pull this off."

Frerin squealed in delight. "Snuffa!"

Red paled and swayed again. Bilbo quickly took his arm, leading him away from the wagons. "Supper with us, then. I promise fish and chips and no red meat whatsoever."

"Chips," Red said breathlessly. "Never heard of anything better. When's tea? Cause I think I'm about to faint again."

* * *

(Two Weeks Later)

Imprints of tiny hooves, followed by the skidding of a child crawling on his hands and knees, gave Bilbo reason for frantic worry long before he found the missing Dwarfling.

"Frerin? Frerin!"

Stumbling over a tangle of bramble, Bilbo pushed a branch out of his way and shoved his way into the trees. Bother pocket-sized Dwarves who could slip into the forest with ease!

"Frerin!"

"Bihbo, ukit!"

"Frerin, whatever it is, put it down!"

"Ukit!"

He tore his way through the final blackberry grove and stared down, giving Frerin his best "You're in trouble now" look. Frerin beamed happily and held up a wriggling, grey-bristled piglet.

"Ig Weah. Weah be'ah?"

"No, we are definitely not giving the pig to Red, and it will not make him feel better." Bilbo looked around apprehensively. "Frerin, that's a wild pig! Put it down right now before –"

But the hoglet's squeals had already drawn the ferocity of its mother. With a barked squeal she charged, a mammoth of pounding hooves and rending tusks. Bilbo only had time to put his arms around Frerin and wonder how much it would hurt before the creature slammed ... into the tree beside them.

Finding himself miraculously not-dead, Bilbo chanced a peek. The severed boar's head stared at him. Sucking in a breath, he shaded Frerin's eyes and scrambled away.

"It's all right. Dead pigs don't bite." Whistling a merry tune, Kæzog sheathed his long, bloodied sword and whipped out a hunting knife. "I was fancying myself some hog steak. Thanks for not moving."

"You just … happened to be there right on time," Bilbo gasped.

Kæzog's eyes glittered. "I like hunting boar. Little runt decided to play bait. I wasn't going to stop him." He pointed his knife at the piglet. "I don't need that."

"Yes, well, thank you," Bilbo squeaked, gathering up Frerin, piglet and all. "If you'll excuse us."

He hurried away, shivering at the squelching sound of sawed meat.

"Never, never run off into the woods again," he scolded as soon as they reached sunlight and safety.

Frerin frowned, then held up the piglet. "Snuffah Weah?"

Bilbo sighed. "You know how impossible it is to lecture you?"

"Snuffah."

An hour later, Red proclaimed he had allergies and not tears as he hugged the wild piglet. "I'm going to call him Truffles," he announced happily.

"Yes, well… keep him away from Frerin," Bilbo implored softly, watching the youngster fit an earring into the poor hoglet's ear. "The mother nearly killed him, and …."

"You want nothing of the kind happening again," Red said seriously. "I understand." He scooped up Truffles. "I wondered where Kæzog got the boar. Now I know." He shuddered. "Poor Truffles probably won't last beyond his first year, but I'll make sure he's tied up whenever we're close to Hobbiton."

Bilbo closed his eyes gratefully. "One butchered pig was enough, I think." He didn't need a butchered Dwarfling.

"Hey, Frerin!" Red called. "Want to see how they fry bacon around here?"

"Wait," Bilbo protested, clapping a hand over his mouth. "Lunch is in two hours, and I really don't –!"

"Baca?"

"Red!"

* * *

(Present Quest, TA 2941)

The first night – the first _three _nights – were uncomfortable, chilly and impossible to sleep through. Fíli and Kíli had dubbed themselves Frerin's official protectors, and scarcely let him out of their sight. It seemed that any action straying outside of "sit down and stay safe" was considered perilous to their brother's wellbeing. Fíli at least had some reserve, and only watched from the corner of his eye. Kíli was like a spooked hawk, somber and flighty. He jumped up every time Frerin's hair swung near the fire, and had to be bullied into silence by Fíli.

All in all, it was a terrible start to their journey. The Dwarves were too watchful, until Bilbo started to wonder what would happen if Frerin was injured. Heaven save them if he ever twisted his ankle. Or tangled himself in a blackberry bush – how dreadful a thought! Thorin would surely rant for hours before tossing the poor boy out like a wayward thrush.

_Not that going home would be any less desirable – if home was really the Shire._

But home for Frerin was many leagues away, and Bilbo was content to wander the wilds if it meant that he was guardian for a little while longer.

Gloin's snores rankled the camp and Bilbo pressed his hands over his ears, unable to sleep. He peeked at the tangle of Dwarves, just making out a glint of bronze. Fíli and Kíli had insisted Frerin sleep between them, and while it might be protection enough from wild beasts, Bilbo doubted their brother had had any sleep for the past three days. Fíli was never still. Every so often he slapped Kíli in his sleep, and the younger merely kicked his brother back and rolled to a new position. Poor Frerin was trapped between them.

Dark eyes peered over Fíli's shoulder, begging Bilbo for advice. Shaking his head, Bilbo raised himself to his elbow and beckoned. Immediately Frerin sprang free. He yanked his blanket from under Fíli's head before tiptoeing around the other Dwarves. Having been raised among Hobbits, he was light enough on his feet – whenever his legs were working properly, that is.

"The ground is hard," Frerin hissed as he snuggled in beside Bilbo.

"Tell me about it," Bilbo grunted, digging a rock out from under his shoulder. "Is there no such thing as a silent Dwarf?"

Frerin made a noise of frustration. "How can they sleep?" He palmed the rock and flung it at Fíli's head.

"Frerin!" Bilbo hissed.

Fíli snorted and rolled over, elbowing Kíli in the face. Kíli wrinkled his nose and scrabbled around as his blanket was stolen.

"I'm tired!" Frerin complained, blinking swollen eyes and rubbing them furiously. "They won't stop!"

"There, now," Bilbo encouraged, patting the Dwarf's shoulder. "I know this hasn't been quite the adventure you were looking for. Mostly it's been bad food, no beds –"

"No _sleep_," Frerin added.

"- And no privacy whatsoever," Bilbo finished.

Frerin sighed. "I thought it would be easier by now."

"Travelling? Well, it's not like –"

"Not that. My family." Frerin sighed and rolled over to face Bilbo. "I don't … they're not like I remembered. Sometimes I'm afraid they'll vanish, and then the next moment I wish they would leave me alone. That's not normal."

"Of course not!" Bilbo said. "No more normal than those rare sunny days when Lobelia seems to have a fair disposition. They're overcrowding you and that can be difficult. Soon enough they'll settle down and you can behave like a semi-ordinary family again."

"I hope so," Frerin said. He shuffled and looked down. "I wish … I wish I could see Amad, too. What if I made the wrong decision? What if I should have gone home?"

Bilbo held his tongue for a long while. "I suppose I could say the same. What if I had let you go off on your own, and stayed in Bag End with your books and memories? What if I shooed Dwalin off my doorstep from the start and never told you we had been visited by Dwarves?"

"I answered the door," Frerin mumbled. "I would have known."

"Yes, but … all the same."

Frerin flopped onto his back and stared at the stars. "All my life I wanted to find the Lonely Mountain. Now I get my wish, and I just want to go back to my Amad. I miss her."

"As you should," Bilbo said. He paused. "Have you thought of writing to her? You could draw her a picture and send it home when we find a trader."

Frerin nodded slowly. "I'd like that. Do you think she'd get it before winter?"

"No harm in trying."

Sighing, Frerin wriggled closer and closed his eyes. Kíli's snores had mercifully quieted – doubtless because he'd suffocated in his own hair by this time. Sleep deprivation pulled Frerin down and he was unconscious in minutes.

Glancing up, however, Bilbo realized that Kíli was very much awake. Carefully the Dwarf eased to his feet and approached.

"Is he all right?" Kíli asked in a loud whisper.

"Fine, fine!" Bilbo replied. "He's tired, same as the rest of you."

Kíli frowned and looked back at his brother. "Fíli was squashing him again." He looked disappointed. "I'm sorry if we woke you."

"I was already awake," Bilbo said honestly.

Sitting cross-legged, Kíli watched his brother with burning, tired eyes. "I wake every night and I think he's gone. I think to myself, 'This is just a dream and when morning comes he'll… he'll be dead." Blinking rapidly, he scrubbed a hand over his face. "And then he's there but I don't – I don't know what to do. I tried to act like he never left, but I think I'm only pushing him away. I don't know how to fix it. I wish Mum was here," he added in afterthought. "She always knew what he needed."

"Perhaps if you just act like yourselves, he will learn where his place is," Bilbo suggested quietly. "He would have been – ten when he left?"

"Eleven," Kíli said jaggedly.

"Ah. That's still a long time." Bilbo smiled crookedly and shrugged. "He's a very different Dwarf than you remember. You're not the same, yourself."

"No." Kíli looked down at his folded hands.

"But you're still family," Bilbo said determinedly. "You haven't lost each other – not yet."

"Not yet," Kíli murmured. "He called us 'Kífí,' you know. It was special – just for the two of us. Do you … do you think we could be close again?"

"I'm sure of it." Bilbo stayed positive for Kíli, and he hoped it was indeed true, but he held Frerin a little tighter all the same.

Kíli nodded solemnly and rose. He whipped off his coat and carefully laid it over Frerin's shoulders "Just in case he gets cold."

Bilbo told himself it was hay fever affecting his eyes. "I'm sure he'll be glad for it."

With another short, shaky nod, Kíli returned to his side of the fire and lay beside Fíli, wrestling a blanket over to his side. Bilbo stayed awake for a long time.

"Oh, Frerin," he murmured to the sleeping bairn, "You have no idea how much they care about you."


	16. To the Light of Bridges Burning

"_Way! Way!"_

"_Rain it is," Fíli agreed. He glanced out the stable window before shifting to a more comfortable position. As Kíli liked to proclaim, straw was made for ponies and blankets for Dwarves. Still, when it came down to locking himself in a stuffy house with a bored Kíli, or hiding away in the barn with Frerin and a book, Fíli preferred the ponies._

"_Khazâd?" Frerin asked, batting his hands on the pages. _

"_Hm, of a sort," Fíli said. "Inflation and trade of the Iron Hills. Thorin says I should learn about more our neighboring kingdoms."_

"_Yak!" Frerin made a face._

_Fíli chuckled. "Actually, it's rather interesting. Did you know that the currency changed during the time of Thrór, son of Dáin I? Apparently every gold coin in Erebor was melted down and replaced with coins with his image." He mulled over that for a moment. "I wonder how many years it took to refill the treasury?"_

"_Bah!" Frerin scowled, pushing the book away._

"_Oh, you're bored of trade, are you?" Fíli raised one eyebrow. "Well, Kíli doesn't care for it, either. Here: there's a paragraph on the Elven war in the twenty-seventh century that opened trade routes between Dwarves and Elves for a good three –"_

_Frerin quickly turned the pages back to the currency section. _

"_All right," Fíli said, a mite perturbed. "Inflation it is. 'The gold coin, at the time, was worth the equivalent of ….'"_

_He read aloud until Frerin fell asleep during a cloudburst, and then continued on his own in silence. Parchment sifted and raindrops splattered, accompanied by the occasional roll of thunder. Frerin shifted and buried his nose in Fíli's shirt, blocking out the sound. _

"_It's all right," Fíli murmured, caught up in the debate of how much silver was worth a single thread of mithril. "No monsters to be found in the hayloft."_

_Frerin sighed, tucked in closer, and contented himself with chewing on Fíli's braid._

* * *

(Spring TA 2929, 12 years before the Quest. Frerin is 30.)

"You're a Dwobbit, you know that? Hobbit and Dwarf mushed together into … just Frerin." Red grinned as he ambled beside Frerin, long legs moseying while the younger Dwarf trotted to keep up. "Hey, Bilbo! You've got a Dwobbit on your hands!"

"He's a Dwarf," Bilbo corrected, more for the sake of Frerin's dignity.

"Nah!" Red snorted. "Shaved chin, princess hair, short feet and overalls. He's a Dwobbit.

Frerin grinned and walked backwards, his eyes darting mischievously. "Maybe I am a Dwobbit, Bilbo. I suppose that makes Red a Dworc."

"Dworc!" Red howled, throwing his head back in mirth. "Yes! Yes, I am a Dworc! I avenge myself on my enemies by stringing them up by their toes and tickling them mercilessly!"

He grabbed Frerin in a headlock, tickling him under the arms until the latter gave a very un-tweenish squeal and wriggled free to take shelter behind Bilbo.

"I don't know, though," Red said as he pulled an apple from his pocket and tossed it thoughtfully. "Maybe I'd be more of a 'Dwarg,' though – or a 'Dwolf.' Wolves are nicer than Orcs. I'd hate to be a 'Dwelf,' though, or even a 'Dwan.' Dwan. That sounds like a bland sort of cheese. Maybe a 'Dweasterling' or a 'Dwondorian.' I dunno, I'd better just stick to 'Whatever.'"

"'Dwagon in Dwisguise," Frerin stated. "Your hair is red, you juggle fire, and you're obsessed with gold."

"Hey, I like it!" Red said cheerfully. "Dwagon in Dwi – wait, doesn't that sound kind of stupid? Dworc seems better all the time."

"You could try 'Dwhatever.'"

"You know, this conversation is pointless. Come on, I'm dying for a pint."

"Be back for supper," Bilbo called, leaving the rascals to fend for themselves. Eyeing his ever-daunting shopping list, he paused by the stand selling kites.

"Dwobbit," he said softly, eyeing the child's painting of a blue frog. He liked the idea.

The kite seller looked at him strangely. Bilbo smiled and dug out a coin. "I've got a Dwobbit!"

There was no prince; no tortured individual who looked at his hands and wondered if there had been a time when he had forged effortlessly. To everyone who knew him, he was 'just Frerin.'

Bilbo had never wanted anything more.

* * *

(Present Day, TA 2941)

"Incineration, lacerations… do you really think we'll meet a dragon, Bilbo?" Frerin was swamped in the cloak Dwalin had draped over him, intently studying the contract. He seemed to be in a far chirpier mood after a restful night.

"I certainly hope not." Bilbo sneezed. "And you sound much too excited about the notion of a violent death."

Frerin rolled his eyes. "It's just a warning, Bilbo. But dragons!"

"Dragons are not to be tangled with," Dwalin growled. "Keep your distance from them, lad."

Frerin looked at the guardians on either side of him, gauging their expressions before folding the contract and stowing it away.

"Oh, confound it all," Bofur bemoaned, "Is it never going to stop raining?"

"For the last time, I am not a weather wizard!" Gandalf called back. "Not even the Blues can make the rain stop!"

"How would you know?" Bilbo piped in. "You can't even remember their names."

"One more impertinent remark from you, Bilbo Baggins, and you'll be walking to Erebor!"

"Can he really enchant ponies?" Frerin wondered.

Dwalin laughed outright. "You've the funniest notions, son."

Bilbo shut his mouth tightly, reminding himself that Dwalin had full rights to use the title.

Just then Fíli rode back, Kíli just behind him. "Thorin says we're camping up ahead. There's no crossing the river at this rate – Minty almost slipped in, and Thorin is grouching at Gandalf for not picking a safer route."

"River," Bilbo muttered, shuddering as he remembered the Brandywine.

"We'll cross further downstream," Fíli said. "For now, everyone will be happy just to find a dry place to sleep."

That in itself seemed impossible, for the trees offered little shelter. Bilbo found himself longing for Lobelia's umbrella.

"Why didn't she send an umbrella with you?" he asked Frerin.

Grinning, Frerin swept back his hood. The oiled hide of his coat slid past his dry bangs. "Early birthday present."

"Oh, of course," Bilbo griped. "She gives you an oil slicker and sends you back with a scathing letter for me. She called me a niddy-headed, pig-brained clodpole! And she nearly followed us. Thank goodness you told her we were leaving tomorrow."

Frerin looked down glumly. "I didn't want to lie to her." He fiddled with Floppy's ears, batting them until the pony shook its head.

"I know, but …. Well, on the other hand, it might have been interesting to have her company," Bilbo mused. "I'd like to see her fence off a dragon."

"Be kind!" Frerin hissed. "A dragon deserves a more valiant death!"

"You're an odd bunch." Dwalin shook his head.

Frerin hesitated, suddenly anxious. Bilbo patted his arm.

He looked ahead and frowned. "Is that the river ahead?"

Dwalin rumbled low in his throat. "Aye. Stay close, Frerin. I don't like the looks of this."

They neared the torrent and skirted the edge, waiting for orders.

"Here is good enough," Dwalin muttered, slinging down from his pony. "Watch the reins, boy. The last thing we need is for –"

"Kíli!"

A clap of thunder crescendoed with the shriek of a pony. Bilbo caught sight of a bolting figure before Kíli's pony slammed into Frerin's, sending them both into a whirl of panic. Dwalin's pony reered away from him and galloped into the woods, while Bilbo was flung to the ground.

"Kíli, look out!"

The horrible splash sent Bilbo's heart plummeting. "Frerin," he whispered. "No, no – Frerin! Where is Floppy?"

"Downstream!" Nori cried, his peaked hair silhouetted in another flash of lightning.

"Quickly!" Gandalf called. He was holding his staff out over the river, shouting a chant above the wind.

"I see him!" Fíli cried. "He's right over there!"

"Do you see Frerin?" Bilbo shouted, pushing past them.

"I don't … wait! Right there!" Fíli's eyes flew wide in panic. "Thorin, he's tangled! He'll choke to death."

"Let me see!" Bilbo screamed.

Bluish-white light illuminated two dark heads on the other side of the river. Kíli was gasping, clinging to a submerged log with one hand while trying to untangle Floppy's reins from around Frerin's shoulder and neck. The younger Dwarf arched as Floppy was yanked downriver, straining against her harness.

"Help me!" Kíli shouted. He vanished underwater for agonizing moments. Fíli sprang forward with a cry.

"Get back from there!" Thorin roared, flinging his nephew into Gloin's arms.

"Thorin!" Kíli choked. Water washed over the brothers and he slipped under again, all the more sluggish when he returned.

"Give me a rope!" Dwalin barked. He edged into the water, reaching for the young ones. "Kíli, can you swim for my hand?"

But the lad was barely coherent. He tugged weakly at Frerin's bindings, his grip slipping on the log.

"The rope!" Dwalin roared, wading out to his waist. The log stretched out on the opposite side of the river, tantalizing close yet impossible to reach.

"Here!" Thorin edged out beside him, wild with fear. "Gloin, give us a hand!"

"I can't hold you and Fíli!"

"He's slipping again!" Fíli cried out.

Amidst the commotion, no one noticed Bilbo frantically scanning the treeline. A certain young nephew of his was disastrously lured to heights, and time and time again Bilbo had been called upon to unwind the curly-haired child from the topmost branches. (Frerin, brave lad that he was, always managed to vanish when anything higher than a cupboard was involved.)

Scooting up the stoutest tree, Bilbo crept along the branches. They shivered beneath him, the bark slippery and crumbly under his numb hands. Lightning illuminated the plight beneath him. Thorin was waging against the current alone, a rope tied around his waist and horror filling his eyes. Kíli had slumped against Frerin, the reins about his wrist the only thing holding him in place. Both Dwarves were deathly still.

_Don't think about it,_ Bilbo thought harshly, gasping as his hand slipped. He wriggled from one overhanging branch to the next, grunting when the wind flung him off balance. _No, no, no…!_

With a yelp Bilbo tumbled from his perch, slapping the water just shy of land. He spluttered and kicked, striking something solid. With a flash of guilt he realized he had kicked Kíli. The current swept him to the log and he grabbed hold of it, hauling himself out of the water.

"Toss me a knife!" he shouted at Thorin.

Desperately the commander unwound his sword belt and flung it to Bilbo. The Hobbit staggered as his hand closed around bolstered leather. The weight alone nearly cost him his balance, but the river stole Thorin's. He plunged under the current, saved only by the rope tied around his waist. While the other Dwarves shouted and pulled their king to safety, Bilbo wriggled the sword free of its sheathe.

"Don't be dead, please don't be dead," he whispered, slicing the cords from Frerin's neck. He left the ties around his shoulders, first loosening Kíli's hand and hauling him onto the log. A final slit to the reins and Floppy was swept downriver. Bilbo hoped she had enough strength to swim for shore.

He gathered up Frerin just as the Dwarfling slipped underwater. Gasping, Bilbo scooted one brother, then the other onto solid rock. He hovered over Frerin first, pressing his ear against the thin chest and digging for a pulse.

"Come on, come on!" he pleaded, pressing on Frerin's ribcage to expel the filthy water. "Breathe!"

"Bilbo!" Nori called, flinging a rope across to him. "Tie down the end!"

Hopelessly glancing between the lads, Bilbo grabbed the rope and knotted it securely around the roots of the log. "I can't wake them!"

"Oin, go first!" Thorin shouted faintly.

Bolstering Frerin in his arms, Bilbo massaged his throat and chest, begging for a sign of life. "Wake up, Frerin. What am I going to tell Lobelia if I return without you? What am I going to do if…." He pressed his fist against his mouth, unable to finish. "You taught me what it was like to have a family again," he whispered. "Don't leave me."

"Give me room to work." Oin's curt voice broke through Bilbo's melancholy as he was pushed aside. Across from them, Kíli crawled to his hands and knees, vomiting muddy water.

"The lad's hanging in there," Oin said, looking up from Frerin. "Quick thinking, Master Bilbo; you may well have saved his life."

"He'll make it?" Bilbo asked raggedly.

Oin snorted. "If he survives the night. Gandalf! I need some of your wizard magic over here!"

"If you want me to make a fire, you might conjure shelter of your own first," Gandalf retorted. His hand hovered over Frerin's throat, pressing gently here and there until brown eyes flew open and the Dwarfling dragged in a thin breath.

"Oh, thank goodness!" Bilbo gasped, clasping Frerin's hand and trying to smile for his sake. "You'll be fine, do you understand?"

"Kíli!" Fíli flew past them in a soggy blur of gold and brown. He eased his brother upright, supporting him while he coughed. "He'll be all right, won't he, Oin? … And Frerin, too?"

It was an afterthought, as though Fíli still had to remind himself that he had another brother. Bilbo was almost glad (and he chastised himself for such an unkind thought), for it meant that Frerin was still his responsibility, and not everything had changed between them.

"Let me see him," Dwalin rasped, kneeling to cup Frerin's face in his massive hands. His thumbs brushed the bairn's swollen neck and his eyes darkened in worry. "Oin, what can be done?"

"We need a fire," Oin said crisply. "They'll catch a chill and that will be the end of it."

"Under those trees," Thorin instructed. "Ori found a cave."

It was a tug-of-war for a moment, calm hazel eyes matching desperate brown, before Dwalin backed away and allowed Bilbo to carry Frerin himself. Bilbo thought later that it was very rude of him, as Dwalin was indeed Frerin's father, but the inner Took hissed _'Mine!'_ and he would not relinquish Frerin yet. The lad was still a just a Dwobbit in Bilbo's eyes.

"Come on, Kíli," Fíli urged behind them. "One step at a time."

"F-F-Frerin… all r-right?" Kíli said between chattering teeth.

"He's no more worse off than you." How Fíli could hold back that much panic, Bilbo did not know. It radiated from his voice and screamed in his bearing, even while he steadily helped Kíli stumble over a log.

"There is a small cave ahead," Gandalf told Bilbo, trying to bolster his spirit. "There will be a hot fire soon enough, and food to strengthen them."

"I doubt he could even swallow," Bilbo said, shaking his head.

Gandalf's mouth tightened and he nodded in understanding. "One matter at a time."

The cave was more like an old badger den, too cramped for wizards and too shallow for Dwarves. Bilbo, Oin, Fíli, Kíli, and Frerin were crowded inside while the rest of the Company settled in the downpour.

"We've lost a good two weeks' worth of supplies," Fíli said dismally, rubbing Kíli's back while the younger rasped. "Maybe more."

"Your brother lives," Oin said simply. "Ask for nothing more."

"I know." Fíli dipped his head, all too aware of what could have been. "Frerin will be all right, won't he?"

"T'lm, sth wor…" Frerin whispered.

Fíli looked up sharply, then his face softened with a touch of a smile. "I won't stop worrying – not until both you and Kíli walk out of here with nothing but stuffy noses."

"You understood that?" Bilbo said with some awe – and jealousy.

"I used to translate for him," Fíli said fondly. "His Khuzdul was abominable."

"Oh. I see." Bilbo processed this quietly and nodded. "Well, he's right; you shouldn't worry too much. After all, it wouldn't be the first time he nearly drowned."

"You mean this has happened before!" Fíli said in alarm.

"The Brandywine floods every year," Bilbo said practically. "Someone is bound to fall in sooner or later." He sighed gustily, dreading the long night. "Still, you did manage to find a spectacular way to hurt yourself, didn't you?"

Frerin hacked feebly, his eyes lighting with mischief. "Dragn… swamp…."

"Oh, goodness – you still remember that?" Bilbo patted his shoulder, knowing now that Frerin would be fine. "Well, now you know why it would be an awful death for a dragon. Try not to do that to me again. I'm a Baggins – I don't care for that sort of excitement. Besides, Thorin _will_ send you home if he thinks you're in danger."

"Shouldn't you be more concerned?" Fíli asked softly. He looked down at Kíli. "Sometimes I wonder if I should have made him stay with Mum – and he's seventy-seven."

Bilbo sighed heavily. "I am worried – terrified, in fact. But Frerin… he's… well, he's stronger than he lets on. He knows how much he can take. As long as he isn't ready to quit, well… I suppose, neither am I."

"He's different than when he disappeared," Fíli said thoughtfully. "I don't know what you did to him, Bilbo, but … thank you."

Bilbo shook his head. "I did nothing more than what anyone would have done, Fíli. I gave him a home when he thought he had none."

"That in itself is more than we could have asked for," Fíli assured. "Thank you for protecting him."

* * *

**A.N.** I wish I could send Lobelia on the quest, but there would be no plot – no bad guys for Thorin and Co. to fight, and no adventures whatsoever. She would box Kili's ears, throw Thorin out as a tramp, and have Dwalin arrested for kidnapping (and Nori for thievery, Oin for sorcerous medicines, Fili for assassinations, Bombur for food shortage, Bifur for lunacy, Bofur for being an international spy, Gandalf for being the leader of said spy rink, Balin for bribery attempts, Gloin for … well he's a penny pincher so they might get along, Ori for being a crafty, knitting murderer, and Dori for association with criminals).

Frerin would be locked in the house until he was sixty-six (double the thirty-three past tween mark for Hobbits), and … on second thought, Lobelia would lock him in for life lest more notorious Dwarves steal him away.

Bilbo would be banished.

Smaug would see his first Hobbit enter the mountain, suffer a stern lecture, and flee while his ears were still intact.

The Goblin King would be duly threatened, find a kinship in the Hobbit so like his dear old Ma, and beg Lobelia to rule his kingdom after his death.

Azog would be brought to tears.

Bolg would see Azog crying, assume Lobelia was his mother, and implore her on his knees to give him a proper upbringing.

Lobelia would inspect the Lonely Mountain, decide it was a step up from her Hobbit hole, and rule Erebor. Alone. With round doors built into all the entrances and absolutely NO admittance for Dwarves or other outsiders. Or relatives. Or anyone. Ever. (Excepting Frerin, who would have a very lonely life.)

Neocolai would stare at the script, burst out laughing, and never write serious again.

Muses! Get this nonsense off my story ASAP!

So yeah… Lobelia can never fit into The Hobbit.


	17. Find What You Dream

"_Boo! Boo! Boo!"_

_Frerin tottered around the house, yipping eagerly and tugging down the family tapestry. "Boo!"_

"_Has he learned color already?" Fíli said drolly. _

_Frerin yanked on Fíli's trouser leg and pointed at his eyes. "Boo!"_

"_Yes, Frerin," Fíli said amicably, "Big brother has blue eyes. So do Mum and Uncle Thorin."_

_Shrieking with pleasure, Frerin skittered over to Dís and reached for her face. "Boo!"_

"_He hasn't shut up for the past hour!" Kíli complained. He wrapped a pillow around his ears and closed his eyes. "Red! Say red, Frerin!"_

"_Boo! Boo! Boo! Boo!"_

"_Oh, look, here's Thorin!" Fíli said too animatedly, rescuing his mother by shoving Frerin into his uncle's arms. "Look, Frerin! Uncle Thorin has blue eyes, too!"_

_Frerin hesitated, abruptly silent as he curled his hands. Tentatively he reached out and poked Thorin's eye. Thorin flinched and grunted, glaring at Fíli for pressing the toddler on him. Frerin tried again, squealing when there was no reaction. _

"_Boo! Boo Snowin!"_

"_He's all yours," Fíli drawled._

"_What did he do while I was gone?" Thorin asked warily, looking around for shattered glass and a steaming Dís. The only sign of a struggle was Kíli slung over a chair, barricaded by a pillow and blanket fortress._

"_Please distract him, Uncle," Kíli pleaded._

"_Boo!"_

_Thorin unconsciously pushed Frerin's hands away from his face. The toddler hushed worriedly, until Thorin pulled an old copper key from his pocket. Frerin squeaked and grabbed for the shiny toy, staring in awe at the twisted grooves and designs._

"_Don't let him put that in his mouth!" Dís snapped._

"_Boo," Frerin said, pointing to a speck of green-tinted rust._

"_Hm." Thorin balanced Frerin on his hip and reached down to lift the pillow from Kíli's face. "Your mother was gone all day, I take it?"_

"_Please find someone else to babysit next time," Kíli begged. "Or at least make sure he naps __**after**__ Fíli gets home."_

_An energetic, wakeful toddler and a Dwarf tuckered out from hunting did not a restful afternoon make. "You survived your first battle, Kíli," Thorin congratulated._

"_I'd rather fight Orcs." Kíli groaned. He slid back into his cave. "Wake me up after he goes to bed."_

"_Snowin! Snowin! Kífí! Boo Kífí!"_

"_Brown!" Kíli howled. "My eyes are brown, brown, brown!"_

"_Don't be such a grouch," Fíli teased, throwing another pillow at his mound of a brother. _

"_Go away, Fíli."_

"_Or what? You'll braid satin ribbons into my hair? Remember when you tried that on Gimli's birthday? Sívah liked your efforts so much that she agreed to dance with me. All. Night. Long."_

_Kíli growled inarticulately and burrowed into his den._

_Fíli clacked his tongue. "Now, now, brother; don't let mother hear you use such language."_

"_Boo!" Frerin piped in, pointing at one of Kíli's blankets. "Boo! Boo!"_

"_Yes, Frerin, it is boo!" Fíli said wickedly as he grabbed the toddler and held him over his unsuspecting brother. "Why don't you say hello to –"_

"_Fíli, don't you dare!"_

_Kíli bolted from the chair, tripped over his fort, fell in a heap of pillows, and scrambled out the door with Fíli close behind._

"_But Kíli, it's your adorable baby brother!"_

"_Get him away from me!"_

"_Long day?" Thorin asked Dís, listening to Fíli whoop outside._

"_I don't want to talk about it!"_

"_Frerin, look! Kíli's covered in boo fwowers!"_

"_Fíli!__"_

* * *

(TA 2931, 10 years before the Quest. Frerin is 31)

Another quiet morning filled with gloomy thunderclouds that refused to rain. Bilbo leaned back in his armchair and sipped his tea, grimacing at the taste. Peppermint. Frerin had lost concentration and mixed up the tea labels again.

"Lobelia, what are you filling his head with?" Bilbo wondered. She had demanded Frerin's presence for tea this afternoon, and had baked an alarmingly moist and luscious looking cake just to guilt-trip him into visiting. Then she had sent Tolman's youngest brother to scold Bilbo for preparing lunch ahead of time.

"Beastly Sacksville-Bagginses," Bilbo muttered. He turned a page in Frerin's diary, losing the more pleasant things for memories of days that were less heartfelt.

"_We walk for hours, buried in dust and heat and moans from the dying. I'm called upon constantly; to hold a bairn, to clean up vomit, to hold a body down while the healers hack off a limb. I feel like I shall be the next to die. I wait for it, wondering if they'll forget me like all the others buried without proper tombs. _

"_My sister runs towards me and I shout at her, telling her she can't come near. I think it's the first time I've made her cry. My brother will kill me if he finds out. I wait all day, hoping my sister finds Adad first. I'm scared of Thorin – scared to admit it, and even more frightened of how he'll react when he finds out. I'm a prince, though I don't know what I am ruler of. I only know that we're not allowed to cry._

"_The dream is no longer coherent, because Red is holding his hand above my head, calling me a baby bunny and making faces at my uncle. My mother-who-really-is-my-Amad looks away disinterestedly. I think they forgot me after all. Red pulls me away and promises I can hold up the targets for the archers in the next show. Bilbo appears – and I hope he will not read this, because his hair was spiked into braids with orange ribbons – and he says we are late for tea._

"_I am very glad to wake. I don't think I'll be interested in tea today."_

Bilbo laughed, choosing to imagine the ghastly image of orange ribbons in his hair. He tried not to think about a life where a child had to protect his sister and then fear his brother's wrath.

"_I know that winter is_ _close_," the next page read, "_Because Azog is there immediately. He is always smiling, like he is a friend and a butcher all at once, and he is almost tender as he twists back –"_

Bilbo flipped the page furiously, ripping the parchment. He hated Azog even more than Frerin's brother.

"If I had a sword," he mumbled scathingly. A sword and a braver heart and a pony as large as Bullroarer Took's.

The next passage was gentler, and Bilbo remembered why he still read Frerin's dream-journals.

"_She is a pretty little thing, with a tiny red nose and blue eyes like chips of crystal. My brother holds her like she is the dearest thing in the world. He is right. I look at her and I am filled with peace. This is someone I treasure._

"'_Frerin, this is your sister,' says not-mother. I want to take the ladybird and hold her, but my brother will not let me. 'You'll drop her,' he says, and I think he isn't being fair, since not-mother says I am very gentle._

"_But not-mother says that I am to hold her, and my brother grudgingly hands her to me. She is so small, but she is my sister and mine only, which makes me deliriously happy because Dwarves never have sisters – not like the Shire, which runs amok with lasses with bouncy curls. Her eyes are closed and she breathes faintly, like a little patch of sky borne on the softest breeze. I remember burying my face in her dark hair, breathing in her scent. She is precious, and I want to protect her._

"_I must have woken several times during the night, but I don't remember the rest of my dreams. I think in one dream I woke in my old home, and saw Amad making supper while Fíli read her a letter from the Iron Hills. I don't want to write about such dreams. They make me feel like I've lost even more than I can bear. _

"_Can I lose a family twice? Did it hurt them, after they first lost me? Did they ever stop looking before...?" _

The passage took a melancholy turn and Bilbo wearily put the diary away. "They never lost you, Frerin," he murmured to the empty room. "Not of their own accord."

* * *

(Present Day, TA 2941)

Bilbo dozed fitfully, startling awake every time Kíli sneezed or Frerin rasped a faint cough. The boys were a sorry state, and poor Fíli was frequently herded out so that Thorin or Dwalin could squeeze inside. Such were uncomfortable times for them all, as Bilbo was forced to relinquish Frerin to his father, and resort to watching Thorin very carefully, trying to discern whether he was facing friend or foe.

There was kindness behind Thorin's stern expression whenever he asked how his nephews fared. It was clear that Kíli held him in the highest regard. Frerin had yet to relax in his uncle's presence, however, and Bilbo remained wary.

Even so, there was no mistaking the fondness when Thorin wrapped his heavy coat around Kíli, clasping the prince's shoulder and muttering how he traveled with fools. His eyes riveted on Frerin, dark and haunted and tinged with fear, and Bilbo wondered where the line was drawn between past-past and present reality.

"Oh, thank goodness the rain stopped," Bilbo said when he was finally shaken awake, with a crick in his neck and a muddied mind bursting with questions.

"Aye, but we're two ponies short and a long ways from our destination," Dwalin grumbled. He had already acquisitioned Frerin and had the Dwarfling settled on his own pony. Frerin blinked heavily and managed a smile for Bilbo, wincing when it pulled at his throat.

"Your pony's over there," Dwalin grunted. "Kíli will ride with his brother."

His argument was clear: Bilbo had had the privilege of tending Frerin during the night. He was not to press his luck any further.

And so the morning carried out. Dwarves were stubborn, ill-tempered and stoic, and none of those traits were working in Bilbo's favor. He was pitted against thirteen possessive knuckleheads. Gandalf had firmly resolved to be the peacekeeper and nothing more, which left Bilbo with no one to take his side.

He focused his antsiness on the boys' health instead. Dwarves seemed impervious to colds, but Kíli had developed a deep-throated cough. Bilbo found himself wishing he had brought extra handkerchiefs for everyone in the company. Meanwhile, Frerin slept in his odd way, curled up against the first soft thing that found his head – in this case, Dwalin's back.

"Does he sleep that way all the time?" Fíli whispered, trying not to irk Kíli any more than necessary, as his brother was already suffering from a migraine.

"Occasionally," Bilbo said. Frerin had drooled on Red's shoulder more than once, and the not-quite-Dwarf had developed an amazing sense of patience. "Usually he has a sort of sleep schedule."

Fíli grinned. "Three marks past noon," he guessed. The lightheartedness faded. "Kíli misses those times."

"There are plenty of opportunities to reunite with your brother," Bilbo said kindly. "He's not lost anymore."

"No," Fíli said softly, "But sometimes I feel as though I am. I used to know exactly what he needed. Now I can't predict anything."

"You will," Bilbo encouraged. "If you like … I can tell you everything I know about Frerin." He felt as though he was divulging a noble secret - as though he had the chance to keep Frerin wrapped up and boxed away, and here he was offering Fíli the key.

"Would you?" Kíli rasped eagerly.

Fíli nodded in agreement. "What does he like? Does he enjoy travelling with us?"

"D's he still have nightmares?" Kíli asked morosely.

"He reads, I expect. Tell me he hasn't forgotten his Khuzdul."

"He hates getting wet," Kíli added.

Bilbo laughed outright. "No, he certainly does not object to getting wet, although he has been boasting that oil slicker just to tease me. As for reading…."

By the time they camped, Kíli was glaring at Oin every time he was pressed to take a swig of lukewarm tea, and Bilbo was quite ready to forget that he knew anything about Frerin.

"Does he have a sort of mother…?" Kíli asked dubiously, now bright and aware as though the river incident had never happened.

"Well –"

"You have a wife?" Fíli frowned. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"I don't –"

"Is she a Hobbit, too?"

"I'm not married, Frerin has no mother, Lobelia looks after him, end of the questions!" Bilbo flung out his hands in self-defense.

Thorin kindly saved him from his plight. "Fíli, go watch the ponies. Take your brother with you."

Grumbling, Kíli grabbed a blanket and slunk after Fíli. Frerin, fed up with Oin's pestering, batted the healer away and slipped into the bushes.

"How is he?" Bilbo asked.

"Cantankerous," Oin grumbled. "The swelling will go down soon enough, and he'll not die of pneumonia."

Bilbo closed his eyes in relief. "Are Dwarves always so durable? He's rarely ill, I've noticed."

"We are hardy folk, aye," Oin said. "You'll find no tree sprites or lumbering, disease ridden boors among us."

"Or freaks of nature?" Bilbo ventured, remembering how Red had referred to himself.

The scathing look from Dwalin and the wrenching of Thorin's spine told him he had made the wrong assumption.

"I mean – I met a Dwarf once – he said –"

"Don't you listen to a word you hear about the lad!" Dwalin scowled. "Is it enough that he can't fit in among his own siblings?"

"Wait, you think I'm talking about Frerin?" Bilbo said in confusion. "What – no! No, of course not. I would never …. _Never_."

"Then whom do you speak of?" Thorin accused. Balin cast him an inscrutable glance.

"There was a Dwarf among the traders," Bilbo said in a rush. "He had red hair. He called himself –"

"Aye, the scarlet one," Nori broke in. "I've met him once or twice. Bilbo's right, Thorin. _That_ one deserved an ill reputable name."

Thorin watched Bilbo guardedly. Eventually he returned to his seat, accepting the bowl Bombur offered.

"Where's Frerin? Off to find his brothers, no doubt," Bofur guessed.

"They will be hungry," Balin said. "All right, Ori. Your turn to feed the lads."

"I'll take it," Bilbo offered. "I left my books in Myrtle's saddlebag."

"I told you not to bring them!" Gloin rebuked. "They are too heavy, they're useless, you can't eat them, they're –"

Crashes in the underbrush disrupted his tirade. Kíli burst into the camp, coughing violently as he tried to speak.

"Trolls – Frerin – pony – tried to stop!"

"What are you trying to say?" Dwalin rushed to support the wavering Dwarf, thumping him on the back. "Breathe, Kíli."

"P-Ponies!" Kíli gasped. "I tried to stop him. He saw Floppy and ran after her. Fíli's gone after him. The t – trolls were shouting behind me."

"Trolls!" Thorin swore. "Where?"

"Back in the woods," Kíli croaked. "Fíli's gone after him."

"Wait here!" Thorin ordered. He pushed Kíli towards Oin and motioned for the other Dwarves to follow him.

"Wait!" Bofur called, looking around worriedly. "Where did Bilbo go?"

* * *

"Now, I know this seems ridiculous, and … fairly nonsensical," Bilbo squeaked, wringing his hands, "But you can't eat them."

"What would a Bilbasterbaggins know about cooking Dwarf?" Bill snorted.

Bilbo fought the urge to roll his eyes. "It's _Mister_ Bilbo Baggins, if you please. As long as we're arguing names, we might as well use them properly." He gulped, wondering where his sensible Baggins side had run off to and how to drag it out of hiding.

"Enough of the Bogginses," Tom squealed. "Wha' about this one? He won't let go of the mutton!"

"Oh, dear," Bilbo moaned, covering his eyes. Frerin was fairly wrapped around Floppy, nearly lifting the entire pony when Tom tried to pull him away.

"Let him go!" Fíli raged. He earned a flick in the face for his troubles - as though he had was not scarlet enough as he hung by one foot.

"No! No, this just won't do," Bilbo said desperately. "You have no idea what you're dealing with."

"And just what would a Misserableboggins know about eatin's when it comes to mutton and Dwarves?" Bert rumbled.

"I'm a _Hobbit,_" Bilbo said, folding his arms crossly. "I know everything there is to know about cooking a proper supper. And _that_, sir, is not even fit to be called elevenses."

"Wha's elevenses?" Tom wondered.

"Never mind that, now." Bilbo frantically searched his mind, trying to remember Red's boasting when he showed Frerin a stone troll ear. Trolls turned to stone … when was it… sunset? _Dear me, I hope I won't have to keep them talking that long. Where are the others?_

Bert fingered his knife and looked back at Frerin, and Bilbo knew his time was running out.

"Now, don't – put that Dwarf down right now! Frerin, let go of the pony!"

Startled, Frerin released his grip and Floppy plopped to the ground, shaking her head disgruntledly. Tom lifted the little Dwarf in confusion.

"It's got no beard, Bert. I think it's sick!"

"You're exactly right!" Bilbo said ecstatically. "Can't you see how skinny that one is? Obviously he's got worms crawling through his belly right now, sucking out everything inside."

"Yeek!" Tom squealed, dropping Frerin at once. "I don't want worms!"

"Take the fat one, then," Bert growled.

"No! No, no." Bilbo waved his hands in a frenzy. "Can you smell him all the way from here? Positively filthy, I tell you. There's no telling how many diseases that one carries. Fleas and ear mites and ringworm and who knows what else."

"I bathe," Fíli growled.

"But we can't have mutton again," Tom whined.

"Shut up!" Bert yelled. He wrinkled his nose at Bilbo. "All right, Misserbibog, how do we cook it?"

"Cook – cook it?" Bilbo gaped. He forced a laugh. "Why, you can't just eat a Dwarf. Don't you realize how much – I mean, he'll block up your … tubes. And your liver. Not to mention your belly will bloat."

Bert looked down at his overhanging stomach. "Eh, Dwarves really do that?"

"Oh, yes." Bilbo knew he had lost his sanity when he bought Frerin a frog kite thirty years ago. "Did your mothers never warn you what happens when you eat wild Dwarf?"

"I didn't have no mother!" Tom sobbed.

"Oh, shut up, yeh loafer!" Bert yowled. He turned back to the Hobbit. "What are we supposed to eat then, huh? Mutton again, like yesterday?"

"Tubers," Bilbo said faintly. "You – you've never tried spuds? Potatoes? You dig them out of the ground. They taste marvelous with fish and a bit of parsley." His voice trailed off. "You've never tried them."

Shaking his head, Bilbo said determinedly, "Well, this just won't do. You can't keep eating meat like this; it's no good for you at all. Why, you'll be dead of indigestion long before winter. You'll just have to get used to vegetables – and no arguments," he snapped when Bill began to whine. "Tubers, carrots, green things, lots of cabbage… and fish," he allowed. "Fish is all right, but fishermen, _tch_, bound to tie your intestines in knots."

Bert held his stomach in horror. "I'll keep my intestines, thank you very much. Where are these tubers?"

"Around the woods," Bilbo said, looking behind him and wondering where the others had run off to. "You don't expect me to…."

They did, and Bilbo had to dig up a fairly decent sized potato before Bert was convinced they would find them on their own. He handed Fíli back, declaring, "Take your disease ridden Dwarf!" and flung the potato at Tom's head before stomping off in search of "Rotten greenery."

"Don't ask any questions," Bilbo murmured to Fíli. "Just run!"

"Where's Frerin?"

"Here!" Frerin hissed, dragging Floppy behind him.

"You went back for a pony?" Fíli flung up his hands in frustration. "Of all the –"

"Less arguing, more running. Go, go, go!" Bilbo shoved them towards the camp.

Thorin met them at the edge, pushing Fíli into the clearing and grabbing Frerin's shoulder. "What were you thinking? Is your mind wasted? You could have killed us all with your foolish –"

"Thorin." Balin stepped between them and pushed Thorin's hand away. "Not like this. Wait until you're less ready to throttle the lad."

Frerin's hands were twisted in Floppy's reins. He shivered, buckling away from Thorin's touch. Immediately Bilbo moved stand in front of him.

"Where were you?" he demanded of Thorin. "I had to convince _trolls_ to become vegetarian - and I still can't believe that worked. Why didn't you come after us?"

"We did, Bilbo," Balin said cheerfully. He clapped Bilbo's shoulder in praise. "You seemed to be handling the situation fairly well. There's been no blood shed, and they'll return to their cave before dawn. Speaking of which, there's the sun now."

"I don't believe it," Bilbo said agitatedly. "Out of all the – oh, Dwarves! I will never understand you!"

"What is this?" Thorin spoke up, moving to Floppy's saddlebag. Stunned, he flung aside the cloth and lifted a gold amulet. "Where did this come from?"

Frerin shifted guiltily. "They left the cave unguarded," he mumbled, his voice scratching past his swollen throat. "I thought… since you came this way for gold… I thought it'd be better if we came home with something."

"You took this?" Thorin said. "You braved a troll's nest for a few paltry coins?"

"No more lectures," Bilbo snapped. "Can't you see he's sorry?"

Thorin ignored him. He stopped just shy of the Hobbit, undaunted by his scowl. "I am not here to lecture him."

He plucked a sword from Floppy's saddle and held it out to Frerin. "Your share. Learn to use it well."

Frerin eyed the steel and shook his head. He lifted his oil slicker to reveal a small dagger. Shaking his head again, he backed towards the fire and sat down.

Thorin sighed. "I expected as much." He handed the sword to Bilbo. "Take it, then. Perhaps it will serve you better than your wit the next time he runs into a troll's nest."

Confused, Bilbo took the wide, short blade. "I don't know how to use this."

"Fíli will teach you. No burglar should lack a proper weapon."

Thorin pulled two more swords from the saddlebags, inspecting them cursorily before tossing one to Kíli and securing the other to his belt.

Kíli wrinkled his nose. "These are…."

"Sturdy blades. Give it to Frerin once he learns to hold it properly."

"Well, this is a first," Balin said quietly. "Never did I expect to see the day when Thorin Oakenshield wielded an Elven blade."

"I think he's surprising us all," Bilbo said, uncertain what to make of the Dwarven commander. He glanced surreptitiously to where Frerin was hunched miserably by the fire. "I can't help but wonder… what might be the cause behind it."

* * *

**Questioning** how they managed to lose all the ponies after the troll escapade... You'd think the Dwarves would have been smart enough to herd them back together again.


	18. Every Thought is Well Disguised

_Frerin son of Thrain adored dogs. Floppy eared mutts and sharp nosed hounds, mottled pugs and wolves that howled on the Lonely Mountain's slopes. If he'd had the chance, his room would have housed twelve yapping dogs._

_When Thorin saw the rolly-polly, pointy eared pup in the trader's wagon, he had no second thoughts about presenting it to his nephew._

_Round fingers jammed into Frerin's mouth and he shook his head, crying piteously. "Amad! Amad!"_

"_He's only six!" Dís scolded, petting Frerin's head while he hid in her skirts. "He's only just starting to talk, Thorin. I don't think he's ready for a dog."_

_But the year after that, and the year after, Frerin was afraid of dogs. He ran screaming to his brothers when they snarled. Once a wolf-hound sprang in front of him, baying as though it had found a long lost littler mate, and Frerin stood petrified until his air ran out and he fainted. _

_Even when he was eleven, he shivered in Dwalin's arms while the wolves bayed. _

"_I thought he would like a dog," Thorin said as his nephew's twelfth birthday approached. "Frerin did."_

"_This isn't Frerin." Dís wrung the water from one of Kíli's shirts, her voice cold. "Give him something softer, like a kitten."_

"_I liked cats," Kíli piped in._

_Thorin grunted into his ale. "A small pup, perhaps."_

"_He's not Frerin."_

* * *

(TA 2912, 29 years before the Quest. Frerin is 13)

The moment he heard barking, Frerin would vanish inside a wagon, the nearest shack or hole, a trunk, a cupboard – anything dark and small that would hold him.

"It's nothing to be afraid of," Bilbo assured. "It's just a dog." He endured the wet tongue on his face, smiling despite the slobber. "See? Absolutely harmless."

Frerin whimpered and shrank back into his cave.

Bilbo sighed. "Of course. Wolves. How could I forget?"

He spent weeks mulling over the problem. Bongo Maggot was raising his own pups, and they promised to be large, sturdy beasts. He didn't want Frerin to tremble every time they walked down the road.

"There must be something that can be done."

The answer came in a golden pup half-drowned by the roadside. It was a runt, not yet fully weaned. Bilbo hesitated, wondering if it was better to put the creature out of its misery. Frerin started to whimper, twisting his hands in Bilbo's coat, and the Hobbit decided to soothe his fears once and for all.

"There now, poor thing is half frozen. I wonder where his mother went."

Frerin stiffened. "Amad?"

"No Amad for this one," Bilbo said sorrowfully.

Mourning for the pup, Frerin reached down and patted its head. "Ah be'er."

The child was taking lessons from Lobelia. "No, Frerin," Bilbo sighed. "I don't think a friendly pat on the head will make it better."

Frerin chewed his lip worriedly and shuffled closer to the puppy. "Bihbo fic?"

Bilbo stroked the puppy's fur, smiling when it shifted with a tiny whimper. Frerin gasped and scuttled away, then leaned forward when he realized his Hobbit was still entranced with the beast.

"Wahg?"

"No, it's not a wolf pup," Bilbo assured. He crouched to show Frerin the rounded ears and golden fur.

Frerin chewed his nail, then anxiously touched the smooth fur. "No wahg."

He prodded the mouth, shrieking when the puppy stirred, then touched it again. "Toof?"

"Teeth," Bilbo enunciated. "No teeth, see? He's just a baby."

"Thall."

"Yes, he's very small." Just like the other pup standing in the rain beside him. "Would you like to take care of him, Frerin?"

The little Dwarf seemed torn. He tucked his hands into his sleeves, shook his head, then inched closer with inevitable curiosity. "Hep wahg?"

"Puppy," Bilbo corrected. "You know 'puppy,' don't you?"

"Uppah," Frerin repeated "Bihbo's uppah?"

"Yes," Bilbo said, looking down at the two bedraggled infants. "He should be cared for, don't you think? It's awfully cold and wet for him to be outside alone."

If those huge brown eyes didn't look like a cocker spaniel's….

"Uppah," Frerin said solemnly, patting the puppy's head. "Uppah car. Fwen hep."

And so Dissy the golden retriever became part of Frerin's life. It was a short three years, beginning with a shrieking child and ending with Frerin wrapped around the dog every night, his nose buried in the golden thatch of fur.

"I think he's adopted it as long lost kin," Red said. "Which makes me feel left out, kinda."

Kin never lasted long for Frerin.

The first time the Shire saw a warg was the day young Bongo Maggot walked out to find the scattered bones of his beloved dogs. Bilbo perceived a wounded Hobbit who had lost his favorite pets. He passed on his condolences and mentioned the beautiful new hunting breeds in the market.

Frerin perceived something else entirely.

On his own he trudged over the hill one day, Dissy trotting at his side. He returned alone.

Bilbo pulled him aside immediately after, for it was impossible not to miss the blot of sunshine that used to follow Frerin everywhere. "Frerin, what did you do?"

Frerin shrugged, smiled waveringly, and said in as brave a voice as he could muster, "He lost his family, Bilbo. I had to give it back."

Many years later Bilbo found an entry looking back to that time. _"I still remember when I gave up my past – again. Bongo lost everything. I had Bilbo. It didn't seem fair. When I saw Bongo's face, after I put Dissy in his arms and left – alone – I knew I was returning what the Fates had given me."_

There were scrawled pictures enclosed. The first was of Bongo looking up in bewilderment, his eyes swollen as he absently patted a golden dog's head. In the next drawing his eyes glowed. Bilbo stared at the picture for a long while, wondering how gratification could be captured in a few quill strokes.

Several days after the dog slaughter, Frerin vanished for hours. The warg had never been found. Terrified, Bilbo rallied a search party and combed through the Shire until they found Frerin kneeling in a field, drenched in blood. There was an elder man crouched by the warg's butchered corpse.

"Frerin!" Bilbo shouted, peeling back the Dwarf's red soaked vest. "No, no, no, no. Stay awake, Frerin. We can –" He swallowed bile, wondering if anything could be fixed.

"It is not the boy's blood," the man said quickly. He sheathed his sword and knelt beside Frerin. "Awaken, Dwarf of the Shire. The beast will trouble you no longer."

Slowly dark eyes fluttered to life. Frerin shuddered and gasped, staring down at his curled hands.

"He seems to have experienced some form of paralysis," the man explained. "I do not believe he was injured, though he nearly lost his life. The blood is the warg's."

"Oh, Frerin," Bilbo whispered, wrapping his coat around the bairn. "Frerin, look at me. It's dead, do you understand?"

"Bilbo?" Frerin lisped. His eyes rolled back and he shuddered, falling into his guardian's arms.

"He is suffering a fair amount of trauma," the man said kindly. "Take him home. Give him tea and rest, and all the comforts of your Hobbit homes. He should be himself within a few days."

"Thank you for saving his life," Bilbo said raggedly. He looked at the bloodied field and had to close his eyes, nauseated. "Are you far from home? If you should need food and rest for the night –"

"Thank you," the man said, holding up his hand, "But I must be on my way. We have been tracking this beast for the past fortnight, and I must report its demise." Somberly he added, "I hope there were no misfortunes save for the livestock that were lost."

"There almost was," Bilbo gasped, hugging Frerin tightly. "Thank you. Thank you, thank you!"

"Not at all." The man pressed his hand to Frerin's brow, and it seemed almost as though the shivers quieted and the lad fell into a natural sleep. "Should such a beast enter the Shire again, do not hesitate to call on my people."

"Wait!" Bilbo called as the man turned away. "I don't know your name."

The man mounted his horse, waving in farewell. "I am Arador, of the north. Good day to you, Master Hobbit."

Briskly Bilbo hustled Frerin home, stripping away the bloodied clothes and leaving the Dwarfling to bathe on his own. The rest of the evening was spent in eerie silence. Frerin crouched by the fire, staring at his hands, until evening passed and the first sunbeams trickled through his hair. He looked at Bilbo with tortured eyes and clung to his guardian for the better part of the morning.

He never wanted another dog.

Bilbo was surprised that Frerin fancied Farmer Maggot's wolfhounds in the end. He suspected it was only because Frerin didn't want to see his anxiety mirrored in little Samwise. Bilbo never considered how much fear might still linger as the wilds stretched before them.

He should have been more concerned.

* * *

(Present day, TA 2941)

"Trolls are stupid!"

"You're not the one who was nearly pulverized!"

"Fancy jelly you'd make, brother. Might I interest you in boysenberry Dwarf?"

"This isn't funny, Kíli. Next time I tell you to keep an eye on him, don't pay so much attention to the ponies!"

"You keep an eye on him. What am I, the royal babysitter?"

Dwalin snorted and leaned in closer to Bilbo. "I haven't heard them argue like that since they were young'uns."

_Younger young'uns_, Bilbo thought absently. "Pity they're still sharing the same pony."

"No one's taking Floppy away from the lad," Dwalin grunted.

Indeed, Frerin clutched Floppy's sawed reins and glared when Nori so much as offered to repair the harness.

"He's not usually this uncivilized," Bilbo said, frowning. "Is it because Thorin keeps badgering him about that sword?"

Dwalin coughed, avoiding the question.

"He shouldn't worry so much," Bilbo grumbled. "Every fine, upstanding lad in the Shire grew up without lifting so much as a pin in violence."

"Frerin is not a Shire-lad," Dwalin reminded. "Fighting is in his blood. No prince of Durin will stand idly by while others fight his battles."

"Did I mention that Frerin has been raised _in the Shire?"_ Bilbo said tartly. "You can't give him a sword and expect him to transform into a warrior overnight. These things take _time,_ and –"

"Time is a luxury we do not have," Balin interrupted. "If he wanted to be gentled, he should have returned to the Blue Mountains."

"Of all the ninny-headed, troll-mannered, intolerable…." Bilbo mumbled under his breath for a good two minutes, choosing the nastiest, most diabolical terms fit for a gaggle of interfering Dwarves.

His tirade was rudely disrupted by the appearance of a babbling, frantic wizard with rabbits for reindeer and a distortedly filthy hat.

"No, Gandalf, I – I had a thought… It was right there on the tip of my tongue!"

Any wizard who delayed them by pulling bugs out of his mouth was not welcome at the dinner table. Bilbo leaned against Myrtle, trying very hard not to lose his meager lunch. Whatever they were discussing about wraiths and swords, it surely could be spoken in something other than Westron! Didn't wizards know countless languages?

"Oh…. But look at that one, there! Didn't you tell me about –"

"Yes, thank you Radagast," Gandalf interrupted quickly. "I'm sure you've seen Dwarves and Hobbits before."

"But that one! Didn't you say –"

"He is Frerin son of Dwalin."

"But I heard –"

"Heard what?" Bilbo asked quietly, glancing at Gandalf with no small sense of dread.

"He heard that Frerin is a special child raised in the Shire," Gandalf said, casting Radagast a dark look. "The child has been reunited with his family, and will now continue to Erebor."

"Oh, why that is a good thing, isn't it?" Radagast exclaimed. "The prophecy –"

Gandalf coughed. "What prophecy, Radagast? You're babbling like a fool and you've disturbed my burglar. Why don't you look further into this dagger and tell me what you find?"

Radagast bounced on his heels like a stray hare. "You mean to tell me that you found him all this time, and –"

"Found whom?" Thorin questioned. He glanced at Frerin, who was doing an excellent job of melting into Floppy's mane. "You knew he was alive?"

"I only knew he was a Dwarf who had been found by Bilbo Baggins!" Gandalf repeated in frustration. "I had no idea whom he belonged to until we met in Bree and you mentioned you were missing kin."

"So you spoke to Thorin about Frerin, and not me," Bilbo accused calmly. "That's very kind of you, Gandalf. Remind me to show up unannounced when thirteen Dwarves appear on _your _doorstep."

"If I had warned you first, you never would have let them in," Gandalf contradicted. "And for all I knew, Frerin might have vanished like he did the month before Azanulbizar."

"Azanulbizar?" Frerin spoke, his voice hushed and breathless. He stared at Gandalf, backing away from the wizard. "How do you know that name?"

A wall slid across Gandalf's expression. The Dwarves stared in silence.

"You know about Azanulbizar," Balin said quietly. "I told you of it when you were a wee bairn."

"No one else knows it," Frerin whispered. His voice rose as he gasped, "No one knows! No one knows! _No one knows!_"

Thorin moved forward and Bilbo skittered in front of him, fearing that it was all over. Everything Frerin had been sheltered from, everything in the journals – in one humiliating moment it would all be made known.

"Thorin, wait –!"

But Thorin was looking past Frerin. Suddenly he lunged forward and grabbed the bairn's arm, twisting him to the ground just as a shadow loomed above them.

"Durin's beard!" Bofur shouted, yanking out his pickaxe. Gloin's axe whirled in time with Bifur's spear and the warg crumbled, blood tickling from its crumpled spine.

"Run!" Gandalf shouted, his sword a flash of silver light. "Leave the camp! Do not wait for me!"

Before Bilbo could think he was boosted onto Myrtle, Kíli leaping up to take the reins. Frerin was yanked up behind Thorin. He clung to his uncle's waist, white faced with trauma. Fíli cried out and Bilbo whirled in time to see Snowy dragged into the bushes. A few strokes of Fíli's swords severed the warg's head, but nothing was to be done for the injured pony. Dwalin hauled Fíli onto his mount, and that was the last Bilbo saw of anything but grass for a long while.

Clusters of rocks jarred the landscape. Kíli looked behind them and cursed in Khuzdul.

"Keep riding!" he ordered, flipping around so that Bilbo was in the front. He clung with his knees, grabbing three arrows and firing them rapidly.

Bilbo risked a backwards glance. Fifteen wargs loped behind them, driven by Orc archers. Dwalin's pony, held back by the weight of two riders, screamed and tumbled as an arrow pierced its flank. Kíli swore and leapt from Myrtle's back, shooting wildly as Fíli stumbled to his feet.

"Fíli!"

Gandalf swerved beside them, a blaze of white light pluming from his staff. "Go back to your master, foul servants of Morgoth!"

Bilbo reined Myrtle to a halt, fumbling to pull out his sword. The wargs zig-zagged around them, closing in on the scattered company.

"Gandalf!" Bilbo shouted.

Kíli took an arrow high in the arm and fell with a strangled shout. Dwalin stood above him, axe whirling madly until the prince regained his feet and exchanged his bow for a sword. A warg snapped at Fíli's back and Bilbo jumped, shaken when his sword plunged into the beast's eye. The rider screeched, whipping around his sword and slicing a groove in Bilbo's temple.

"Bilbo!"

In a flurry of bronze hair Frerin was beside him, dagger flashing uselessly as he tried to avoid swords and claws. He flinched and dropped it, crouching to grab Kíli's bow. Wobbly hands fitted an arrow to the string and he weakly pulled, his arrow zipping past the closest Orc.

"Move!" Dwalin roared as he crunched his axe through the last warg.

Frerin fumbled another arrow and pulled the string harder this time, the arrow bouncing off another Orc's shoulder plate. Kíli and Fíli ran together, twisting and spinning like one invincible warrior. Several of the Dwarves had made it back and they sacrificed their ponies, knitting around their fallen brothers. Thorin bellowed as the Elven blade flashed alongside his sword.

Suddenly the ground erupted beneath them, as tens of giant rabbits bounded out of their holes. Yipping with excitement, one of the wargs wagged its bohunkus and lumbered after the wriggling rodents. Its companions swiftly followed. Their mounts distracted, the Orcs hissed in their foul tongue and swerved to maim and slay their irksome enemies.

White fletched arrows struck them first.

In a blaze of silver armor horsemen surrounded the company. Elven bows sang and spears pierced thick hide. The wargs that survived the onslaught scampered away, whimpering, only to be cut down by the archers.

When at last the Dwarves stood alone, surrounded by warriors of light, the leader removed his helmet and scowled.

"Never have Orcs dared to tread on our lands. What evil have you brought upon us?"

"Lord Elrond!" Gandalf intervened. "We have traveled far and one of our company is injured. Will you grant us shelter for the night, and allow us to explain this ill-mannered entrance?"

Narrowing his eyes, Elrond sheathed his sword. "Food and shelter you shall have, Mithrandil. As for your reasoning… I already know of this quest, and I must warn you now: you will never reach the Lonely Mountain."

* * *

**To guest** reviewer frerin100 - Okay, okay, he's used a bow! ;)


	19. Don't Need These Threats of Violence

"_Aaah! Aaaaaa!"_

"_Frerin, it's all right! See, it's just a small cut."_

_But the little one screamed and fought her, sobbing as though his hand had been smashed by a hammer. The dagger Dwalin had been coaxing him to hold lay on the other side of the room, and Frerin screamed when his father bent to retrieve it._

"_Ada naa!"_

"_Throw that thing away!" Dís shouted, covering her son's eyes. "Frerin, listen to me! It's only a little blood. You're fine."_

"_Ama! Ama!"_

"_He's old enough to be past this stage," Dwalin rumbled. "Frerin, this has gone far enough."_

"_Don't you dare scold him!" Dís snapped. "I told you he wasn't a fighter."_

"_Dís, he's going to be eight. He can't keep –"_

"_Dwalin, you promised me you wouldn't push him too far! He's not like Fíli and Kíli and he never will be!"_

"_All I'm trying to do is –"_

"_Just go! Find one of the boys and train them if it satisfies you."_

"_Dís." Even in his fury, he was gentle with her. "This is my son, too."_

_She froze, fury and defeat wrenching her heart._

"_Dissy, he's going to be eight. He screams every time he slices his thumb on a bit of paper. This has to stop."_

"_What do you want me to do?" Dís asked raggedly. "Yell at him? Make him afraid, like my brother?"_

"_Dís." The wounded look was back, and she chided herself, knowing Dwalin would never hurt their son. "He's afraid already. It's time he learned to act like a prince." _

* * *

(TA 2912, 29 years before the quest. Frerin is 12 and a half.)

"I don't see much in this show." Kæzog scrubbed his long blade, inspecting it ruthlessly before pouring a little more bear fat oil over the surface."It's entertaining for the mob, but it won't last. Freaks and morons is all you'll find here."

"And … what is your place in that?" Bilbo asked innocently as he balanced Frerin on his knee.

Kæzog smirked. "I remind people that life is cruel and realistic. Fate is ugly and cynical; forget that, and you're dead." He spat on the blade and rubbed it with his fist. "No one makes it to the end with a pretty pocket of posies. Either you die fighting or you're the one who gets dragged through the mud on the wrong end of a warg saddle."

Bilbo had grown used to covering Frerin's ears for extended periods of time. "Wargs… You've dealt with Orcs, I take it."

Kæzog laughed. "I've seen my share. Brute creatures, those. They look prettier when I'm on stage, but they'll rip your arms off and pick out the –"

"Yes, thank you, I don't need the details!" Bilbo cut in. "Why am I discussing this with you?"

"You wanted to know if a trading party of Dwarves could possibly have survived the Fell Winter," Kæzog filled in. "Well, they didn't. End of story. Any more questions?"

"How do you possibly stick around with freaks and morons who talk about swirly hats and pink bunny rabbits?"

Kæzog's eyes narrowed irritably. "Sometimes I wonder, Shireling. _Sometimes_ I wonder…."

* * *

(TA 2922, 20 years before the Quest. Frerin is 22)

"I like marigolds. They're hardy and warm - kind of like gold." Frerin grinned as he pressed dirt around the feathery seeds. "Only, you know … more alive."

"Lot of good gold does for you." Bilbo snorted. "Invites all sorts of unsavory folk. As my mother used to say, 'The only use for gold is to throw it away.' She used to travel to Bree often, and there wasn't a beggar who wouldn't see a bit of kindness before her purse was empty." He smiled in memory. "Father was always put off by her reckless spending. Oh, she was thrifty in everything else, but she couldn't say no to a child on the streets."

"You learned from her," Frerin said quietly.

"Too well, as Otho claims. Mind you don't pack the dirt too tightly."

Frerin shivered. "Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be a seed? Packed under the earth… unable to breathe… waiting for the day you were finally born?"

"That is a terrifying concept, and no, I have no desire to dwell on it." Where did Dwarves come up with these ridiculous notions?

"Sometimes I wonder about it," Frerin said. "Red told me that Dwarves seal their dead in stone tombs." He shuddered. "What if they weren't actually dead? What if they woke up and realized they were trapped inside, until the air ran out or thirst –"

"Frerin, watch what you're doing!"

The sharp trowel nicked Frerin's thumb. A thick pearl of blood gathered amidst the grime. Frerin stared at it, breathing shallowly, before looking up with bottled panic.

"I – I need a bandage, Bilbo. I _need_ –"

"It's just a nick," Bilbo encouraged softly. "Just suck the blood away; it'll be fine."

Frerin paled and for a moment Bilbo thought he would faint. "Bilbo, _please_," he whispered.

"Oh. _Oh._" Moving cautiously, Bilbo whipped a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around the wound. "It's all right. Lobelia can't stand the sight of blood, either."

Frerin nodded shakily and stuffed his hand into his pocket. He clenched his fingers in the dirt compulsively, then shook himself to awareness. "I'm okay."

Bilbo smiled, used to such episodes. "Just … be more careful, all right?"

He noted the incident and moved on, deciding to wait a little while before asking Frerin to peel potatoes again.

* * *

_(Present Day, TA 2941)_

"It's broken! It's broken!"

Safe in the halls of Imladris as they were, the wargs continued to haunt them.

"Are they still there? My fingers?" Frerin was hyperventilating, not daring to look at his hand.

"Nonsense," Balin assured, "It's nothing but a scratch. Good as new, given time."

"Bit – it was bitten? It's not – please don't!"

"Give him space," Bilbo said quietly. He moved between the Dwarves, motioning for Balin to step aside. Gathering Frerin close, he sat beside him and held him tight, whispering reassurances.

"It's all right, Frerin. It's just a bit of blood. The warg scratched the back of your hand; no permanent damage was done."

"Warg." Frerin gasped and swallowed thickly, his face pasty white.

"It's dead now," Bilbo assured. "It can't hurt you."

"Azog... P-please!"

"What is he saying?" Balin said in a hushed tone. His eyes darkened as he knelt by Frerin, brushing the lad's hair from his eyes. "Bilbo, what has been done to him?"

"It's a nightmare," Bilbo said hesitantly. "It haunts him. I've never understood it."

"No indeed, lad," Balin murmured. "I thought he outgrew those terrors long ago." He gently lifted Frerin's hand and inspected the bandage. "The damage is superficial…."

"He's always been afraid of dogs," Bilbo explained. "There was a warg in the Shire once – it nearly butchered him."

"Ah." Balin nodded, his thoughts imperceptible. He studied Frerin for a long while, frowning at the sharp pants and darting brown eyes. "Keep a close eye on him, Bilbo."

"I'm sure it will pass soon." Bilbo cupped Frerin's hands together, shushing him softly. "He just needs a few hours of peace."

"It's unusual for any lad to be so afraid," Balin said mysteriously. He paused and then shook his head. "Don't let Thorin know. The last thing he needs is another reason to send Frerin home."

"Then you don't agree with him?" Bilbo said, puzzled.

"No, Bilbo." Balin's eyes were distant with times long past. "I think what he needs most is right before him."

Skidding feet in the hall disrupted the somber moment. With insane cackles Fíli and Kíli darted past, the latter not hampered in the least by the sling binding his arm to his chest.

"Oh, dear," Balin muttered, raising his eyes to heaven in supplication. "I fear our welcome is already worn through."

Within moments lighter boots slid down the hall and two Elves swerved in the doorway. One's hair jutted up in twisted braids, secured by satin ribbons and candlewax. The other Elf had lady's face paint delicately cresting his eyes, rosy lips and accented cheek bones.

"Which way did they go?" one of the Elves implored.

"We shall have them," the other joined in. "Such abhorrent crimes – truly they are masters in their art."

"This way, Ro!" the first called, tapping his look-alike on the shoulder. "They fail to hide their tracks. Lo, the stain of a boot print!"

"With your very candle wax, at that! Come, brother! They shall not escape!"

Giggling, the two Elves lit down the hall. Bilbo stared at the doorway, blinking deliberately as he tried to wipe the image from his mind.

"Well, enjoy your stay while you can." Balin sighed. "Lord Elrond will see us exiled by morning."

Shrieks down the hall heralded the dastardly stroke of Elven vengeance. A short time later Kíli sploshed into the room, a lily pad delicately perched on his brow. A string of flowers bound his arms, winding up to the lotuses woven through his hair. He reeked of perfume.

"Do _not_ mention this to anyone! And to think I left poor Fíli to their wrath…."

"Kíli!" Fíli's voice rang piteously. "You promised we would fight to the death!"

"I'm a wounded prisoner!" Kíli snapped. "Balin, help me out."

"What in Durin's name have you lads done?" Balin asked serenely.

"We plundered their sister's room," Kíli mumbled.

Slippers padded towards them and Kíli gasped, backing into the room. "No, no, no, no, no!"

Snarling, an Elf maid clacked him over the head with her slipper, sending him reeling into another fountain.

"Drowning Dwarf!" Kíli spluttered, spitting out a goldfish. "Can't breathe!"

"Elladan!" the maiden screamed. "Give me back my hair combs right now!"

"It's dear sister!" one of the Elves hissed.

"Leave the hostages!" the other cried. "We must live to terrorize another dawn!"

"Take the Dwarf!" his brother screeched as the Elf maid ran into the hall.

"I shall see you both at the end of Father's wrath!" she shouted, kicking off her other slipper in order to properly chase her brothers down.

Fíli wobbled into the room, clutching a cushion to his head. The hair that was visible was an alarming shade of lilac.

"We never speak of this," he said hoarsely. "Where are the baths?"

Kíli had no qualms about shoving his brother into the fountain.

* * *

By the time Fíli and Kíli were finished drowning each other, Frerin had broken from his daze in a pitch of frantic giggles. Satisfied at a job well done, the brothers clapped one another's shoulders, bowed dramatically, and wished Frerin strength and calm.

"No wargs here," Kíli assured, hovering until Fíli yanked his lotus-garlanded-braid.

"We're in Imladris now," Fíli added. "Not even Thorin could pose a threat."

"_Kíli!"_

The boys exchanged a horrified look.

"That's our signal," Kíli said quickly, and they bolted from the room.

"They never stop." Balin harrumphed. He patted Frerin's shoulder kindly. "Don't worry yourself too much. Any Dwarf finds his first battle alarming, and Fíli and Kíli have been training for years. Don't compare yourself to them."

Frerin nodded, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "I didn't mean to panic. I don't know what came over me."

"You fought well enough when we needed it," Balin said. "The aftermath matters little."

Frerin's eyes shifted, and Bilbo expected there was more he needed to say.

"Thank you for your assistance, Balin," Bilbo said. "If we need anything…."

Taking the hint, Balin bowed lightly. "Any one of us shall be on call. Excepting two miscreants, of course. If they should be found missing… check the dungeons." He winked and slipped from the room.

"Well, Frerin," Bilbo said, glad for the peace, "We both had quite the scare today. I thought –"

"It wasn't a dream, Bilbo."

The Hobbit glanced up sharply. "Frerin, what –?"

"It was real." Frerin stared at his hands and clenched them to stop the tremors. He looked up desperately, holding onto Bilbo's calm. "The dream I had – the one with the warg dragging me away... I remember it now."

"I think I skipped that part," Bilbo said uncomfortably.

"It wasn't a dream," Frerin repeated, his voice rasping. "My hand … it had my hand." He flexed his fingers, breathing short and fast. "I remember this great white beast putting my own in the warg's mouth. My fingers wouldn't even move. I couldn't fight back."

"Frerin, wait," Bilbo cautioned, fighting down bile. "Maybe this isn't the best time…."

"It dragged me over bodies," Frerin choked. "I – I saw things. Arms and legs strewn everywhere, and there was my grandfather – dead. I couldn't – _he_ wouldn't –" He wrapped his arms around his head, trying to rein it in. "No one would help me!"

"Frerin! Frerin! Shhh!" Bilbo rocked him gently, coaxing the small Dwarf to hide in his embrace. "It's just a dream."

"It wasn't a dream!" Frerin choked, pushing him away. "I know what a dream is, Bilbo. This was real!"

"And you …." Bilbo swallowed, knowing he was fighting the inevitable. "You remember how this played into – into your past-past life?"

Frerin steadied himself and wiped his hand over his eyes. "I don't know, Bilbo, I don't know! But I'm frightened. I don't want to die again."

This he could fix. Bilbo lifted his chin and said determinedly, "You won't die, Frerin. You said no one would help you before. Well…." He nodded with certainty. "You have fifteen of us standing alongside you now. You have your brothers, your father, your uncle, Gandalf … and me."

Those solemn, dark eyes cut him through. "You're the only one I trust, Bilbo."


	20. What to Keep, What to Save

**A.N.** Just to clear up a little for the journal entries: Not-mother is Frerin's mother from the past (when Thorin was his brother). Not-father is Thrain. (Frerin does not accept them as his parents, as they do not match with his present life.) "Adad" or simply "father" is Dwalin and "Amad" or mother is Dís. Grandfather is Thror.

The general format for chapters is as follows:

\- The first section of Italics is Frerin's childhood when Dwalin and Dís are his parents.

\- The years spent with Bilbo will always be second, with Frerin's age listed in the timeline. Italics within Bilbo's timeline indicate the memories (dreams) that Frerin has of his life when Thorin was his brother.

\- Lastly of course is the Quest itself.

* * *

_(TA 2941 – One Week Before the Quest)_

"_A runtling of a Dwarf child? Aye, I saw him not too long after the wolves passed through. Scrawny whelp. Could barely move against the wind. He traveled east; looked like he was lost."_

"_Did you see him after that? Do you know what happened?"_

"_Lost sight of him in the wind," the old man said slowly. "Thought he was a ghost, until word sprang up that a Dwarf child had been found among the Shirelings. Odd bairn. More Halfling than Dwarf blood in his veins."_

"_The Shire – where in the Shire? Please, is there anything more you can tell me?"_

"_A Hobbit," the man remembered slowly. "Boggins, I believe his name was. Small folk, Shirelings. Don't need no disturbances in their quiet lives."_

"_Thank you," Kíli exclaimed, pressing a few coins into the man's hand. "Thank you very much!"_

_He rushed to find Fíli._

_Gandalf was right. Frerin was alive._

* * *

(TA 2931, 9 years before the Quest. Frerin is 32)

"_Sometimes I dream of the Mountain," _the diary excerpt read. _"I slide through oceans of coins – just me and sister, playing in the treasury. She thinks it's fun to have so many shiny things surrounding her, and I have to watch that she doesn't put some in her mouth. We roll and laugh and I feel important._

"_In my dreams it's a vision of wealth and happiness, but when I wake I feel empty, like a teapot drained dry. I think it was the gold that made Grandfather snap at us whenever we disturbed him. Not-father let me play in the treasury since it amused little sister, but I heard him tell someone that I was a babe who would never be welcome in court. I heard it in my dream – so cutting and real, that I woke with my chest aching and tears on my face. Is it true that dreams are visions into the soul, and if so, where have I conjured this past? Bilbo was never unkind to me, nor was Adad. The Thorin I knew never hit me once. Why am I afraid?"_

Tea by oneself usually led to an upset stomach. Bilbo glanced at the clock, hoping Frerin would be home soon.

"Bosh and bother it all," he muttered. "Read something else if it disturbs you."

He never listened, of course.

"_Thorin … he's younger in my dreams. He grabs my hand in his enormous fingers and laughs. I scream at him, using foul words I didn't know I knew, and his eyes gleam with challenge. He waits until I hit him first and then he slaps me open-handed, like I'm a sniveling child, and tells me to grow up. I hit him again and next thing I know I'm trapped under his arm, my hand outstretched. He squeezes until I scream. I don't understand the game."_

Bilbo's tea had grown cold with constant stirring. He had broken a cup yesterday, and dashed if he didn't throw another one into the fireplace soon. There was a reason they had spare china.

"_My dream changes this time – I'm so relieved that I start crying, and I realize I'm a child again. Amad is there, coaxing me with spiced apples and I think I will cry for real if I talk about that. Suffice it to say, Thorin appears, but he is older and the taunting gleam has left his eyes. I am afraid of him, and that feels wrong because he does not raise his hand to strike me. His hands are so large they could hide me, and I remember warmth and comfort before I wake. That is the end of the dream. It was a good ending._

"_Fear lurks in my mind before I sleep again, and I know what is coming. I close my eyes and my hands burn with –"_

"Turning the page," Bilbo muttered. "Ah. That looks happier."

"_She is so fragile in my arms, this little patch of sky. Dwalin watches over her too, and I glare at him because she is my sister and not his, and I don't want him to take her away. She giggles and claps her hands. I coo at her, because she is three and I am nearly thirteen, and we are both allowed to act like children. She grabs at my hair and my silver crown falls loose. I am growing out of it. Not-mother says they must forge me a new one, and she will keep the old just like she treasures every crown I have worn since I was a babe._

"_Dissy will not have crowns. She is a child of flowers and sunlight and she doesn't need gold burdening her dainty head. I take off her circlet when not-father isn't looking. Thorin puts it back on because she is a princess. I wait until he leaves before I take it off again. She is precious. She needs something more than –"_

The page broke off where Frerin had left before finishing the entry. Sighing, Bilbo flipped the book closed and returned it to its place under Frerin's pillow.

"Tea is cold," he muttered. It was nearly five-thirty. "Blasted neighbors, always stealing my Dwobbit." He glanced at the frog kite that still held the place of honor in a dusty corner. "Interested in joining me for a cuppa?"

* * *

(Present Day, TA 2941)

Bilbo woke the next morning with a clear head and a sunnier disposition than usual. Sleeping in a soft bed with real sheets and pillows that one could properly bury oneself in did wonders for any nerve-wracked, aching Hobbit.

This did not excuse Gandalf from a proper lecture, of course.

"Look at this," Bilbo said fondly, holding up a battered brass kettle. "Frerin's kettle made it all this way. Funny how that happens. Good thing I packed my sturdiest kettle."

"Lucky for your all that the Elves found your ponies," Gandalf corrected. "It was a merry chase, so I heard."

Bilbo smiled thinly. "What prophecy?" he demanded, fixing the wizard with his standard 'Frerin-you-hid-those-cookies and-I-will-know-where' look.

Gandalf coughed lightly, sucking on his empty pipe. "I never mentioned –"

"Gandalf, now is not the time for protecting me - or Frerin, for that matter. If this involves him, I need to know."

"It is merely a prophecy about the heir of Durin." Gandalf's brows were drawn together in the most alarming fashion. He fiddled with his pipe, clacking it in his palm until a bit of old leaf tumbled out. "'Durin the Deathless' shall reclaim his homeland and avenge those who have fallen."

Bilbo rolled his eyes and enunciated carefully, "His name is Frerin and not Durin –"

"I was not implying that Frerin was in any way involved." Gandalf flicked his pipe agitatedly before stuffing it with new leaf. "However, the Ents claim that a star fell in the winter of twelve ninety-nine, according the Shire calendar – one hundred year past the Battle of Azanulbizar. The Orcs have been combing the wilds for such a warrior ever since."

"Why would they care if Frerin is alive?" Bilbo asked, dropping his voice to a whisper as Bifur walked by the room.

"Because Azog has sworn to eradicate the line of Durin. If one of them not only survived, but was born from the ashes of Azanulbizar…. That, Bilbo Baggins, could pose an immeasurable threat. The prophecy speaks of an 'Undying Warrior.'"

Stunned, Bilbo hissed, "But how would Azog know about Frerin?"

"He wouldn't. And we will see to it that he never knows." Gandalf clacked his pipe between his teeth and smiled encouragingly.

"Which is perfectly safe," Bilbo bit sarcastically, "Considering that a rabbit-wielding wizard already knows and he blabs his secrets to everyone."

"Radagast the Brown is wholly trustworthy, I assure you," Gandalf said gruffly. "He is attuned to the paths of Middle Earth the same as any other wizard. I merely directed him to what he was seeking."

"By which you mean Frerin," Bilbo finalized. "Gandalf, this is going too far. He may be a Dwarf, and I'm glad you found his family, but you can't thrust him into this – this ludicrous scheme of yours! He's already terrified of dying, and _Azog_ of all creatures? No." He shook his head firmly. "You will not speak a word of this to him."

"You cannot shelter him from his destiny."

"I can and I will," Bilbo countered. "He's Frerin. He's … he's my son, just the same as Dwalin's. I won't let him get hurt."

"Bilbo." Gandalf's face was grave with concern. "Before he was your son, he was Thrain's. You cannot protect him from everything."

Bilbo swallowed, lifted his chin, and smiled thinly. "Sorry, Gandalf, but that just won't do. Azanulbizar may be part of the past, but this is Frerin's future. You won't take it away from him."

Gandalf regarded him thoughtfully. "And you believe you can preserve it?"

"I certainly will try," Bilbo said. "All his life he's had other people telling him how he should live. Well, that is going to stop here. There is no prophecy; no legacy that he is burdened to fulfill. He is Frerin of the Shire – or the Lonely Mountain, or wherever he wants to be."

Smiling fondly, Gandalf clapped Bilbo's shoulder. "Then he is exactly where he needs to be." He frowned. "But how I am going to explain this to Lord Elrond…."

Bilbo sighed irritably. "Now Elrond knows?"

"Elrond already knew." Gandalf raised one eyebrow in warning. "Do not underestimate those with power, Bilbo. They can sense things which others cannot see before them."

"Is that why he said we would never reach the Lonely Mountain?"

Gandalf tilted his head, considering. "I do not think so. But the plains are black with Orc scouts, and whatever they are hunting, it is centered on Thorin's company."

"You think they're hunting Thorin?" Bilbo proposed, half relieved that the target was no longer Frerin.

"That I do not doubt."

Shifting uncomfortably, Bilbo asked, "If… If the Elves can sense that Frerin is … different... Do you think Azog could do that?"

"I do not know," Gandalf said slowly, "And I hope you will never have to find out."


	21. The Chances I've Had Are Now Long Gone

"_After all, there's no reason to assume they would be an ill match. With my husband's prestige and her beauty, she would make a perfect wife for your little one."_

_Dís and Nhalí exchanged a glance and burst into giggles._

"_Well, it's true!" Nhalí said, jiggling Nihmli on her knee. "She's so boisterous and Frerin is so quiet. They would balance each other well, I imagine."_

"_I can only guess." Dís teased. "Nihmli will drag Frerin to the Iron Hills, to the Firebeard tribes and home again, establishing a wealthy treaty with six different clans, and she'll not allow him to smelt a single gold coin."_

"_That boy amuses me," Nhalí said. "You say he melted Thorin's beads just to see how the colors would blend together?"_

"_Oh, don't remind me." Dís rolled her eyes. She swung her braids away before Frerin could slip off the dull copper beads. "He's obsessed with the forges – Kíli is half out of his mind trying to keep him away."_

"_Tch, let the boy try his hand," Nhalí tutted. "My Gimli is already forging his own axes – of course, he's snapped the blades on two so far, and the last one was too short in the handle, but he improves by the day."_

"_I don't think Frerin is ready yet," Dís said, stroking the delicate fingers. "He's so small. I worry that I'll pick him up one day and he'll break in my hands."_

"_Oh, don't overwork yourself so." Nhalí set Nihmli down, encouraging her to practice with a stone mallet. "He'll be a fine warrior, just like his brothers. Look at my Nihmli: stout arms and a braver heart. There won't be a Dwarf in Ered Luin who doesn't pine after her."_

_Dís smiled and rubbed her son's sparrow wrists. "I think Frerin is a little different from the other children."_

"_So was Kíli, and look at him now! Not a finer archer in the Blue Mountains. You'll see: Frerin will catch up to the others yet."_

"_He can take all the time he needs," Dís murmured. She hugged Frerin and kissed his cheek, smoothing back the bronze waves. He leaned against her and closed his eyes, contented. This was not a warrior or a forger; a connoisseur of battle and gold. This was a hungry heart that craved attention and was sheltered in the arms of love. She would never take that innocence away from him._

"_You are my boy," Dís whispered, holding him tight, "And you can be whatever you want. Jeweler, tinker, weaver; whatever those little hands can do, flourish in your art, my Frerin."_

* * *

(TA 2913, 28 years before the Quest. Frerin is 14)

The next time Frerin was lost, it was entirely his fault. Something caught his eye and he slipped away from Bilbo's hand, wandering from sight before Bilbo realized he was only holding a coat sleeve.

"Frerin? Frerin! Oh, bother it all – not again."

"You lost him?" Red shouted when he heard the news. "How could you lose him? He's tiny! He might have been squashed into Frerin-mud-pie by now!"

"I didn't lose him, he misplaced himself," Bilbo said, brandishing the small red coat.

"You got one with floppy sleeves?"

"Well, yes," Bilbo said. "Wilma Cotton said children need room to grow."

Red slapped his forehead. "Of course. Listen to a Hobbit when it comes to Dwarves. Dwarflets don't grow as fast as Hobbitlings. You basically handed him an invitation to the free range market." He growled and waved for Bilbo to follow. "Come on. If he's here, Truffles will probably sniff him out – and if that doesn't work, you can always see if Kæzog put him on the pantry shelf."

They did eventually find the bairn, without needing anyone's help. His high-pitched giggles led Bilbo straight to the center of the traders' camp. Bilbo clapped a hand to his mouth as soon as he saw Frerin, unsure whether he should be amused or horrified.

Frerin was decked in "circus freak" garb (as Red so quaintly pointed out), with a maroon vest, a frilly blue shirt and bells tied to his little red boots. His braids had been interwoven with glass beads and even more bells, which made a ridiculous clamor whenever he swung his head.

"Bilbo!" Frerin shrieked when he spotted his guardian. He ran to Bilbo and vigorously shook his head, laughing as the bells rang around him.

"What have they done to you?" Bilbo said sympathetically.

Behind them, the Hobbit dancer rose to her feet. She approached them saucily, one hand braced on her bared waist and the other twirling until her bracelets clattered in time with Frerin's bells.

"Bilbo, dissa Maér Amadnamad!"

"Aunt Maér," Red whispered to Bilbo.

Bilbo managed to squeak a polite greeting. Maér threw back her head and laughed, dark ringlets swinging around her face.

"Don't be so frightened of me, laddie. I'll bring no harm to the young'un."

"No, I wasn't – wasn't worried about anything," Bilbo said quickly.

Maér regarded him shrewdly and shrugged. "Eh, whatever pleases you. Here now, he's had luncheon and my little Marí taught him to skip rope. He's all tuckered out and ready for home. I reckon you'll have an hour of peace and quiet, and what more could you want?"

"Bilbo! Bilbo!" Frerin cheered, shaking his head again.

"Thank you," Bilbo said, a little flummoxed. He nodded at the fair-haired child peeking out from behind Maér's leg. The fauntling's eyes widened and she ducked into hiding again. "I'm glad he's … safe."

"I know a thing or two about Dwarf bairns," Maér said haughtily. "He's been in good hands."

"Mare! Mare!" Frerin agreed.

"Here, now, say 'Thank you Maér," the Hobbit lass instructed.

"Thankoo Mare!" Frerin repeated.

"He's still working on his Westron," Bilbo said. "But he's getting better, aren't you, Frerin?"

The Dwarfling tugged Bilbo's hand and twirled himself around.

"Course he is," Maér said confidently. "He's a Dwarrow bairn, not a fauntling. Keep up the tutoring; he'll catch on fast at this age."

"You really think so?" Bilbo said, surprised. "How would you know?"

Red cleared his throat. "Um, she raised me," he said quietly.

"Oh. _Oh._" Bilbo glanced from the riotous lass to the silver roses embroidering Red's vest.

Well, maybe the lad's upbringing wasn't so mysterious after all.

* * *

(Present Day, TA 2941)

It was the sight of Thorin that had Bilbo spiraling into the hall again. He leaned against the wall outside Frerin's room, his Took side and his Baggins side quarreling.

_Don't be an idiot – intervene before he gets hurt!_

_It's only his uncle, and he hasn't had a chance to see Frerin since we entered Rivendell. Give him a moment._

_One moment is all it takes. Remember how he used to taunt Frerin?_

_That was a diary excerpt, and it may have been a dream or a slight bout of indigestion._

_He scares Frerin. _

_Who wouldn't be scared of Thorin? He never has anything cheerful to say! He and Lobelia would make a charming match._

_You're taking too long! Jump in there and smack him over the head with his own sword, before it's too late!_

_Too late…._

The Baggins side won out this time. Peeking from behind the door, Bilbo watched.

"Let me see your hand."

"It's fine. _It's fine!"_

Frerin hissed and drew back, but quicker than a jumping spider Thorin grabbed his hand and held it out to the light. There was no roughness in his bearing as he unwound the bandages, and his brow furrowed sharply in what looked more like concern than anger. Bilbo edged a little closer.

"There is no infection." Thorin nodded briskly and glanced around the room. "Did they give you a salve?"

"Small bottle," Frerin mumbled. "Pearl one across the room."

He hugged his arm to himself, watching broodily as Thorin sorted the arrangement of (whatever those things were – Bilbo had counted a number of flower scented soaps and strange dark pastes that were supposed to keep one's teeth strong and bright). Thorin sighed in frustration before finally sighting the pearl bottle.

"Will you allow me?"

Reluctantly, Frerin nodded. Thorin uncorked the bottle and tossed the stopper aside before pouring a small silken puddle into his palm. He cupped Frerin's hand with more gentleness than Bilbo had seen when Samwise found a huddle of abandoned bunny kits. Frerin trembled slightly, but did not pull away as the salve was massaged into still-raw grooves.

"You do not need to fear me, Frerin," Thorin said quietly.

"I'm not afraid," Frerin answered too quickly.

Thorin cast him a look but did not argue. "I sent a raven to your mother. Her reply will be furious, no doubt. She misses you dearly."

The awkward hush set Bilbo's teeth on edge. He was about to make a bold, obtrusive entrance when Thorin spoke again.

"We leave early in the morning. I do not believe our hosts advocate our cause."

"They should," Frerin mumbled. He cleared his throat and shook his hair from his face, raising his voice. "They should stand by you. You're the King of the Lonely Mountain."

Thorin looked up, and Bilbo wondered how Frerin could not see the longing in his eyes. Thorin was missing something that Dwalin, Fíli and Kíli had recovered instantly, and he sought it with the fervency of one reaching across a gulf for a lost child.

"What was it like in the Shire?" Thorin asked gruffly, masking whatever he felt inside. "The Shirefolk are odd creatures; simple, sentimental, driven by the comforts of home…."

"I like simple things," Frerin dismissed. Thorin waited for him to speak, but he focused his attention on the wound. "Oin says it needs a fresh bandage."

Sighing quietly, Thorin retrieved a bundle of soft white cloth and wound it around Frerin's hand. "You still have the opportunity to turn back, should you choose to. You are welcome wherever you go."

"I'm not afraid, Thorin." Frerin's eyes blazed willfully. Thorin's response was calm and vaguely puzzled.

"I never said you were."

There was a silent battle of wills in those dark and blue eyes. Eventually Frerin was the one to look away.

"Thank you," he mumbled, brushing his hand over the bandage.

"Let Oin know if the infection seems worse."

Frerin nodded quietly. Thorin edged for a moment, debating, and then clasped the small Dwarf's shoulder. "I promised your mother I would bring you safely home. Should anything else happen, do not hesitate to inform me."

"I won't go back alone," Frerin said tightly. "If I have to hobble on one leg, I'm going to the mountain."

With a frustrated smile, Thorin said, "I know." He squeezed his nephew's shoulder and rested his forehead's against the younger's. Frerin sucked in a breath and squeezed his eyes shut. Bilbo fancied he saw a flash of tears before the Dwarfling blinked them away.

Thorin withdrew and nodded stiffly. "Rest while you can. We leave before dawn."

Bilbo scurried behind a pillar and waited until Thorin's footsteps died away before easing back to the doorway. Frerin stood in the center of the room, rubbing his forehead as though trying to hold in the memory of touch. He clenched a fist and slammed it into his leg.

"It's not fair!"

* * *

**A.N. I noticed** a lot of reviewers seem to be dropping away from this story, so I'm looking for a popular vote.

Are the memory patches too confusing? Would you prefer that those be skipped in view of the larger plot?


	22. Change One Note, Change One Line

Wow! I didn't expect so many responses! Thank you to everyone who responded last chapter. I got a lot of feedback regarding the memory segments and their usefulness/needlessness/etc. The majority seem to like the past additions (and agree that they help tie in Frerin's past with the present), and there others who think the memories are a bit confusing or drag out the plot.

I can honestly say that the chapters would have the same pace with or without the memories, because I enjoy cliffhangers and will cut a segment off wherever it sounds like a good finale. I can also say that the action is picking up ahead and within ten chapters you will be in or past Mirkwood. (Le gasp!)

I will continue with the memories for now, but I will see if there are ways to make them less confusing. Thank you again for the feedback!

* * *

_D__í__s hardly glanced up when Thorin trudged inside, slapping the rainwater from his gloves. "Missing someone again?"_

"_Is he with you?"_

"_My son's business is my own. Take your boots off."_

_Scowling, Thorin kicked his muddied boots aside and tossed his coat into a slurry pile on the floor._

"_That, dear brother, shall be hung by the fire or I will use it for the new litter of kittens that Kíli found."_

_Even more irked, Thorin glared at his little sister and grudgingly slung his coat over the rack by the fire. Brown eyes peeked out from behind D__í__s' skirts._

"_How long has he been inside?"_

_"That is none__ of your concern, Thorin." D__í__s passed down a slice of cheese, which was nimbly grabbed before the small hand vanished once more._

_Thorin sighed. "If you are concerned I was pushing him too hard –"_

"_Oh, I know you were. He only left the cupboard an hour ago."_

"_D__í__s, if you coddle him every time he –"_

"_Fíli and Kíli are waiting for you at the tavern. I suggest you meet up with them. It's late, and I don't want to __Kíli __to think we forgot his birthday again."_

_Sharp blue eyes accosted Thorin before __D__í__s__' face softened. "See that they get safely home this time."_

_Thorin nodded. _

"_Oh, and tell Dwalin that just because Kíli isn't his son, does not mean I will forgive him if he forgets what day this is. Mahal knows it's past sunset and he probably hasn't said anything."_

_Thorin rolled his eyes. They'd fought over the same matter during Fíli's birthday. "Anything else?"_

"_Apples. I didn't have enough for Frerin and a pie, and there's still a bit of dough left."_

"_And?"_

_"Tell Fíli if he walks in drunk, I'll box his ears."_

_Thorin sullenly waved. "I'm leaving now."_

"_Coat, Thorin!"_

_Turning, Thorin sighed when he saw two wide brown eyes watching his every move. _

"_Honestly," __D__í__s__ tutted, "And you wonder why he runs into the rain all the time."_

_Grabbing his coat, Thorin made a show of putting it on and clasping it securely. Frerin tilted his head in fascination, then ducked back behind __D__í__s__._

"_Oh, and don't forget –"_

"_Leaving now," Thorin growled, closing the door soundly behind him._

* * *

(TA 2938, 3 years before the Quest. Frerin is 39)

"And why do you think one of our own lasses aren't good enough for him, Bilbo Baggins?"

"Lobelia, _Lobelia_," Bilbo hissed, waving his hands down in an effort to silence her. He glanced back at Frerin, hoping the lad hadn't overheard.

"What are you doing with your hands there?" Lobelia sniffed and backed away. "Do you even wash your nails? It's a wonder the child had _any_ sensible upbringing, with you for a keeper. Why, if I hadn't seen to his proper wellbeing he'd be a dirty, thieving circus rat!"

"Now you're insulting Red," Bilbo said starkly.

"And what does it matter? The Dwarf cares not who speaks of him or in what mannerism. Don't change the subject, Bilbo! Tell me why you think one of our dear lasses couldn't bring a spot of joy to that poor boy's life."

"He is a _Dwarf_, Lobelia!" Bilbo whispered fanatically. "You can't just –"

"But you said yourself that he's practically a son to you," Lobelia countered. "That makes him Hobbit enough for the rest of us. Allow me. Frerin!"

Bilbo flung his hands up, ready to strangle his cousin. "Lobelia!"

Frerin trotted up, braids flying around his face and cheeks aglow. "What is it, Amadnamad?"

"Don't fret yourself any more over that shameless pretty thing," Lobelia said, turning up her nose at Marí. She linked her arm with Frerin's, leading him away. "My second-cousin's niece had a terrible misfortune the other week. It seems her little music box – a treasured gift from her departed Papa – tumbled to the floor and now it no longer plays. I promised her you would repair it."

Frerin frowned in concern. "But I can't –"

"There, I knew I could count on you!" Kissing his cheek lightly, Lobelia patted Frerin's hand and waved ta-ta. "Her name is Poppy Bracegirdle. Just ask around, and you'll find her soon enough."

"But I don't … really know how…." Sighing, Frerin tucked his hands in his pockets and turned down the road. "I'll see what I can do."

Lobelia beamed at Bilbo. "You see? All he needed was a little push. Really, must I do everything for you?"

Bilbo closed his eyes, willing himself not to rip off his cousin's hat and throw it into the Brandywine. At flooding stage. During a fierce storm. With Frerin safely locked away, so that she couldn't bully him into retrieving it for her.

"Lobelia, you are going to find yourself facing a heartbroken lass and a thoroughly confused Dwarf, and I hope you get to hear the end of this."

* * *

(TA 2941, Present Day)

"And so we must bid you a fond farewell…."

"But do not tell Father that we let you do this!"

Elladan and Elrohir raised their hands as one and shushed the Dwarves.

"Just follow the path."

"Not the one that goes up the mountain – the cave trolls are abominable."

"And not west, where there be stone giants."

"Which are better than spiders."

"Which are incomparably better than our father's wrath."

"So if you are going to leave, hurry and do so now before he catches you!"

"Oh, for Durin's sake be silent." Dwalin grumbled.

"Enjoy your posies, Lady Dwarf!" Elladan called, waving cheerily to Fíli.

"Same to you," Fíli said pertly. He watched serenely as Kíli balanced in the tree overhead and dumped a syrupy mixture of petals and perfume on the unsuspecting twins.

"By the Valar, and to think we did not prepare a final parting for them!" Elladan spluttered. He smirked when Kíli launched onto his horse and promptly spiraled over the side from a loosened cinch. "Oh, wait – we did."

"Elladan!" Elrond's voice rose above the falls.

The twins exchanged a glance. "Best to make ourselves scarce, then," Elrohir suggested.

"By all means! Farewell, smelly Dwarves, and may your dispositions be improved by the fair Lady of Light, should you chance upon her during your journey!"

"_Elrohir!_"

With a yip and a giggle, the brothers were gone.

"Beastly Elves," Kíli grumbled, tightening the cinch viciously.

"Serves you right," Fíli said blithely.

"You're the one who sat there like a proud snitch while I risked my life!" Kíli protested.

"I am still combing rose petals out of my hair. You have nothing to complain about."

"I'm riding with Frerin," Kíli said snippily, goading Moppy forward.

Fíli rolled his eyes. "He'll be back."

Soon enough Kíli was, and the light-hearted bickering continued until the path turned stony and the sun was shrouded by storm.

"Is this where we're supposed to be going?" Bilbo wondered, clutching his coat tighter.

Kíli shrugged, shouting to be heard above the thunder. "Thorin knows what he's doing!"

"He was lost travelling to Bree and back!" Fíli countered. "Isn't this the path the Elves told us to avoid?"

"Get down, lads!"

Dwalin's roar came too late, for the rocks ahead had already split apart and were stretching in the most grotesque fashion.

"Stone giants!" Dwalin shouted, leaping down from his pony. "Get down, all of you!"

No sooner had he dismounted than Bungo lost his footing and careened into the yawning gap. Fíli and Kíli released their mounts and let them bolt for Rivendell and safety. Two more ponies were lost, while the others scattered like so many mountain goats. Bilbo had one brief moment to hope that Myrtle would find the lovely green hills of Imladris before the ground bucked beneath him and another giant furled into shape.

"Move!" Thorin bellowed, shoving Bombur forward as shale crumbled around them.

Fíli and Kíli ran together, hands clasped tightly lest they be torn apart. Ori shakily clutched his scarf, counting each Dwarf that ran past before hurrying along with his brothers. Bilbo caught a glimpse of bronze hair ahead and was relieved that Frerin had not fallen.

Suddenly a rock burst above him and he shouted as a sixth giant uncurled from the stone. One leg narrowly missed the cluster of Dwarves. Another boulder smashed and Bilbo wavered, reaching blindly for anything to stop his fall. Immediately he felt himself being pressed against the edge, wiry arms clutching him tightly while long hair sifted into his face. He blew it out of his mouth, searching the rainy torrent. More shards of rock pelted ahead.

Just as quickly the barrier left him and Frerin pulled the frazzled Hobbit to his feet, pushing him forward. Thorin lunged from a crack in the rock and ushered Bilbo inside. He darted back out and dragged Frerin after them, nearly flinging the Dwarf into the wall.

"What were you thinking? I told you to go with your brothers! Have you no –"

"Thorin!" Balin started to warn.

Frerin wrenched away, ducking when Thorin stepped closer. "Don't touch me, _don't touch me!_"

Thorin stopped cold. The anger washed from his face and he tentatively held out his hand. "Frerin…."

"You weren't going to save him!" Frerin shouted raggedly. "What was I supposed to do, stand by and watch him fall?"

"None of that now," Balin snapped, stepping between them. "We're all safe and unharmed. We need a fire, food if anyone has it left, and a moment to tend our wounds. Thorin, you first."

Seething, Thorin turned away. "I am not injured."

Frerin stoically shook his head. Kíli's wounded arm had been wrenched, Fíli had a gash along his brow, and Dori had twisted his ankle. Scrapes, cuts and swelling that would turn into vicious bruises categorized the rest. They were all lucky to have survived.

"That could have been worse," Bofur said optimistically as he wrung out his hat.

"Worse?" Nori muttered. "We are lost, the ponies have fled, and our supplies have gone with them."

"There is always worse that could be found," Balin said. "Be glad we all survived, and do not tempt fate."

Perhaps this was not the poorest experience of their journey, but it was certainly the most uncomfortable. There was no wood for a fire, so the Company huddled in groups to stay warm. Fíli and Kíli had miraculously fallen asleep, cloaks bound tightly around one another, the younger resting against the elder like he had found the safest place in the world. The Ri brothers had welcomed Bofur and Bifur into their cluster, while Bombur nestled with his back to Dís' sons. (Doubtlessly they were the warmest of the lot, as he radiated heat like a steaming kettle.)

Bilbo looked for Frerin and finally found him huddled in the darkest corner of the cave.

"I'm all right," Frerin said quickly, pulling his dripping hair out of his face.

"No, you're not," Bilbo ascertained. "Come now, Frerin. Remember what I said about hiding injuries?"

Sheepishly Frerin eased out from his corner. He moved stiffly, wincing as he pulled up his tunic. Bilbo hissed in sympathy.

"Your entire back is purple and black. What on earth did you do?"

"Hit by a rock," Frerin mumbled. "Nothing's bleeding, though."

Bilbo snorted. "Yes, because only blood constitutes a dangerous injury. Why didn't you tell Oin?"

Gingerly Frerin pulled his shirt down. "I was mad at the time... It didn't seem to matter."

"Of course it matters!" Bilbo said, exasperated. "Broken ribs, broken spine… any number of things could have been hidden." The apothecary from Hobbiton had warned him of such when Frerin was a wee bairn and less likely to speak of his hurts. "You're lucky to be walking right now."

Frerin carefully studied his hands. Bilbo didn't voice the horrid thought that some of those injuries might have been _his_ if Frerin hadn't protected him.

"There now, I'm not angry," Bilbo said with a heavy sigh. "It's been a wretched afternoon, and you've been scolded aplenty. Why don't you sleep? I think all of us will feel better after a good night's rest."

"No tea?" Frerin asked with a faded smile.

Bilbo fondly reminisced the days in the Shire. "No, I'm afraid your kettle ran away with Myrtle."

Frerin's eyes glinted impishly. "Told you you'd want it someday."

Wearily he settled himself against the wall, exhaustion dragging him into his terrible dreamland. How many times Bilbo had woken him during the past few weeks, shaking him frantically before the screams began, he could no longer count. It was unfair that they had been granted respite in Imladris, only for the haunting to begin anew.

"Sleep, Frerin," Bilbo urged. "I'll keep watch."

Frerin nodded laboriously and closed his eyes.

Twenty minutes later, Bilbo dozed off.

Fifteen minutes after that the cave exploded in wraiths and firelight. One by one the Dwarves were dragged down an unseen corridor. Only the unforeseen Hobbit was left behind.

* * *

Favorite = Ori will knit you a tea cozy. Review = Frerin will forge you a Lobelia-approved brass monstrosity - erm, tea kettle.


	23. I Don't Know What I'm Thinking

**A.N. **I have no desire to change Bilbo's epic "Riddles in the Dark", nor do I intend to rehash the entire scene in this story. Suffice it to say, he is (not really) enjoying his cannon bout with Smeagol right now, while Fíli dictates the following chapter.

**Warning: **The following chapter is deliberately mocking Peter Jackson's plot. I have read too many repeated goblin cavern scenes and I can no longer take the Goblin King seriously.

* * *

_Sometimes Frerin's tiny stature drew unwanted attention. There was a beefy armed, headstrong Dwarf lad close to his age who seemed particularly intrigued by the shrimpy specimen. Dwalin had tossed him out of the smithery on more than one occasion, and Fíli and Kíli had personally threatened him, but there was nothing they could do when Frerin wandered off on his own._

_All it took was one gasp – one reedy cry, and Fíli dropped his knife in the coals and raced from the forges. Bhruíd's corded arm pinned Frerin to the wall by his throat, while the other poised in an open-handed slap. The ten year old kicked wildly, feet dangling mid-air, and Bhruíd's companions muffled their laughter. _

"_Think you're so special, little prince?" Bhruíd sneered. "Think your daddy and your uncle will pay in gold to have you back? I could squish you like a crippled pug and no one would find you until the spring flooding."_

"_F-Fíak!" Frerin gasped, cringing as the hand swung down._

_Iron strong fingers clapped Bhruíd's arm. Heartlessly, his eyes threatening with cold fire, Fíli bent the Dwarf's arm back until Bhruíd cried out and released Frerin. The other bullies had fled and Fíli knew they would not return. He was through taking chances with Bhruíd. _

_Fíli's other hand slammed up in an open-handed strike, throwing Bhruíd down on the cobblestones. He stood over the sniveling bairn, breathing hard. _

"_If you touch my brother again, I don't care who your father is or how many lashes I would earn for harming a child…. If you hurt Frerin I will find you and return every bruise I find."_

"_My mother will hear about this!" Bhruíd whimpered, rubbing his sore cheek. He snarled at Frerin and ran._

_Fíli watched him disappear and then turned to help Frerin stand. "Are you all right?"_

_Frerin brushed his sleeve over his nose and then grabbed Fíli's waist, burying his face in his brother's tunic._

"_Look at me, Frerin," Fíli implored, kneeling beside his brother. "Where does it hurt? Show me."_

_Achingly, Frerin pointed to his scraped elbow and swelling wrist. It looked to be a sprain, but Fíli smoldered as he saw the fingerprints that would soon darken to bruises._

"_He's gone, Frerin. He won't hurt you anymore." Gently Fíli scooped up the bairn and carried him inside the forges. _

_Frerin sniffled and burrowed into his brother's arms. He closed his eyes, murmuring over and over, "Cam. Fía cam."_

"_Of course I came," Fíli said. "You think any of us wouldn't come if we heard you scream?"_

_Frerin nuzzled into Fíli's shoulder, gratefully clenching the coarse leather of his apron. "Cam. Fwen nod deah. Fía cam."_

_It was then that Fíli realized there was something deeper than nightmares could tell him. No ordinary child held such fear about dying alone._

* * *

(TA 2914, 27 years before the quest. Frerin is 15)

Kífí, Bilbo assumed, had been either a dark haired lad or a blond. Frerin drew both. His art was quite good, albeit shaky from a tenuous grip. He frequently left half-finished, tearstained drawings of himself with a dark or fair haired Dwarf.

Remnants of his old life frequently morphed in with the new. Pretty soon Bilbo realized it was Red's eyes that were colored into the blond Kífí's face, and the braids started morphing into Marí's fair tresses. When Frerin drew the dark Kífí, he added Maér's brown curls.

Once he reached fifteen, Frerin stopped saying "Kífí" all the time. He tagged after Red like a little lost shadow, and silently worshiped Marí.

"I don't think this is healthy for him," Bilbo confided to Wilma Cotton one day. He glanced out the window, where Tolman and his sisters were leading Frerin into a game of hide-and-seek.

Wilma tutted and set aside another polished spoon. "So he's a six year old who lost his family. Of course he's looking for someone with resemblance."

"Actually, he just turned fifteen," Bilbo corrected.

Wilma dropped her silverware. "Fifteen, but that's nearly Tolman's age!"

"Dwarves age differently," Bilbo said dismissively.

"I'd heard that, but … never…" Wilma looked out the window with a frown. "Shouldn't he be more advanced?"

"He's speaking in full sentences now." Bilbo sipped his tea, smiling as Frerin chased down his friends. The Dwarfling's legs hitched and he tumbled, then scrambled up with the same dazzling grin. "I don't even have to teach him anymore. Arithmacy, reading, cooking…." Well, the latter still needed some work. "… He learns most of it on his own."

"Still, _fifteen_ and he seems so young." Wilma's fingers curled around a teal ribbon that she no doubt _longed_ to weave into Frerin's hair. "Dwarves are such odd folk."

"He gets along well with the other children," Bilbo pointed out.

"Yes, but …" Wilma shook her head. "I've warned Tolman over and over to be cautious with him. Is he … abnormal – in his head, I mean?"

Bilbo's nose twitched and he clenched his fingers around his cup. "He is perfectly normal in every sense."

"I didn't mean to pry. It's just … well, my girls are kind to him, anyways. They won't look down on him for being a trifle different."

"And you encourage this?" Bilbo sighed.

"I thought it was good to warn them," Wilma said. "It's rude to stare and ask impertinent questions."

"Questions that Frerin would gladly answer on his own, or I can answer for him," Bilbo corrected. "He's not a freak of nature, Wilma, and I don't want the other children priding themselves for accommodating a 'different child.' I think they would appreciate him all the more if we wouldn't interfere and warn them about how they should behave."

Wilma twisted the cloth in her hands, considering. "Perhaps. It won't do any good to correct them now, of course. I'll leave Tolman and the girls to play with Frerin how they choose from now on – that will have to be enough."

"They are fine children," Bilbo praised. "Look at them even now – Frerin settles so easily into their games."

Wilma smiled. "I raised them to be gentle."

The rest of the visit was spent in silence as they watched their children run about with the innocence of fun, laughter and newfound friendship.

* * *

(Missing Scene from the Quest. Setting: Camping out in the spot where Balin chit-chats about Azanulbizar.)

_Bilbo stiffened as a railing howl filled the air. "What was that?"_

"_Wolves," Kíli said softly, exchanging a glance with Fíli. The elder sucked on his pipe, staring into the fire. _

"_Are they a danger to us?" Bilbo asked. He subtly moved closer to the fire._

"_Oh, don't be ridiculous!" Dori said, slapping his shoulder. "Unless they're mad wolves - or wargs for that matter - you'll not be seeing anything near our camp. They would be butchered long before they reached the outskirts."_

_Kíli fidgeted and studied the mud on his boots. Bilbo waited until Dori walked away before asking softly, "Is that true?"_

_Fíli shrugged. "He's probably right. The fire will keep them away, if nothing else."_

"_Then what is there to worry about?" Bilbo wondered._

_Kíli rose, kicked a rock into the fire pit, and strode away. Fíli watched him with solemn understanding._

"_Our mother found a pack of wolves frozen beneath the ice. Days later, Kíli discovered the same on the opposite side of the river. The pack he found was only a month dead. We could only assume…"_

"_Assume what?" Bilbo whispered._

_Fíli broke out of his daze and dug a stick roughly into the bowl of his pipe. "Frerin's coat was on the other side of the river. They'd worried it to pieces. We never told her we found it."_

_Bilbo blanched and pressed a hand over his mouth. "You thought… all this time…"_

_Calm, tortured blue eyes met his own as Fíli smiled bitterly. "If he ever thinks we abandoned him… we didn't."_

* * *

(Present Quest, TA 2941. Fíli's POV)

They were dragged to the Goblin King's throne, a huddle of swearing, volatile Dwarves minus one Hobbit. Fíli glanced around briefly for Bilbo before his thoughts were consumed by _Kíli! Thorin! Frerin!_

"A-hah! The heirs of the Lonely Mountain. Bring forth the royal princes, and let us see if the fabled rumors of "Durin the Deathless" are true."

Kíli lashed out as he was dragged forward and thrown to his knees beside Fíli. The Goblin King leered over them, tracing his staff down Fíli's cheek.

"Who deserves the glory of the kill? The heir or the spare? Tell me, Thorin Oakenshield, which of your paltry nephews could vanquish the mighty Azog?"

"Touch them and I will bury you in this mountain so deep that the rats will not find your bones!" Thorin roared.

His words bolstered Fíli, though he knew they were futile. He glanced at his brother, dark meeting the light, and they both lifted their heads in defiance. Whatever came next, they would die as princes of Durin.

"Hah! You would denounce them so easily?" the Goblin King scorned. "I know what lies in store for these priceless gems. Word has it that Azog seeks your head. I think I shall deliver your nephews to him as a prize – a first taste of what is to come."

"Leave them!" Thorin bellowed.

"Indeed, I think not. Fear not, mighty Oakenshield – you will live to hear the grisly manner of their deaths. But wait…." The Goblin King paused, mystified. "What is this? A runtling, should the spare be lost? You _are_ paranoid, Thorin."

Fíli closed his eyes and Kíli swore.

"No! He isn't anything!" Kíli exclaimed. "He is no relation of ours!"

"Who is this beardless youth?" the Goblin King demanded. "Bring him before me!"

Beardless Frerin was no longer, for a fair stubble now dotted his face, giving him all the more resemblance to his lost kin. He stumbled before the massive goblin, ashen and helpless.

"No, wait!" Fíli called, scarcely believing his own voice. He looked at Frerin, a breath of life cringing away from the grotesque monster, and remembered a tiny bairn writhing in a bully's grip. "He's not Thorin's heir."

"So keen on protecting him, eh? He must be someone important. A brother?"

"Half-brother," Fíli said easily, for it was indeed truth. "He is only partially Dwarf."

Dwalin spewed an oath. "What are you saying, you impudent boy?"

"His father was a Hobbit." Now Fíli knew he had lost his sanity. "Only, we lost him along the way."

"A Hobbit?" the Goblin King said uncertainly. "Never heard of it. Very well, then; carry on, goblins. Just torture the half that's the heir."

"No, no!" Fíli said, ignoring the shocked look on Kíli's face. "You can't – he isn't –"

"We haven't even had tea yet!" Frerin burst out. "We haven't been properly introduced, or…." He cringed and squeezed his eyes shut, flushing with mortification.

"Eh, what?" the Goblin King lowered his globules ear to hear better.

"Don't you understand?" Fíli said, praying that Thorin would never see the burning tips of his ears. "He's half Hobbit! Hobbits never jump into a torture session without a proper introduction."

"Fíli!" Kíli yelped. Fíli discretely kicked him.

The Goblin King looked mildly alarmed. "Well, then by all means – let us have the introductions! I am –"

"You can't just start in like that," Fíli said. "Hobbits rely on ceremony." Silently he thanked Bilbo for teaching him the offhanded manner of dealing with trolls. "You have to invite him to tea, then … indulge on sweets for a good hour, and then state your business. He will accept the terms, you will both discuss the manner of torment, and finally you will agree on the proper date for the torture session."

"Fíli!" Kíli squeaked.

"Why can't I just torture his Dwarf side now?" The Goblin King looked rather concerned.

Fíli shook his head adamantly. "His Baggins side will never allow it. You will have to negotiate."

"Well, then perhaps I should just start with you two," the Goblin King said darkly.

Frerin gasped, looking in horror at his brothers. Instantly a crazed look began to glow in his eyes. He rose to his feet, shrugging away from his captors. For a moment Fíli felt uneasy around his own brother.

"If you want to settle for half-best," Frerin said shakily, "Then by all means begin with those blubbering were-worms. Azog won't care if they're dead, anyways."

"What did you say?" the Goblin King asked dubiously.

"I'm Thorin's lost nephew." Frerin's voice grew calmer as he spoke. "These are my older brothers. Can you imagine how much they'll squeal when you start breaking my fingers?"

"Lad, no!" Dwalin shouted.

"Frerin, what are you doing?" Fíli hissed.

"Snap an arm? Crush the hollow of my ankle?" Frerin practically sauntered forward, deadly with his confidence. "Brand out my eyes?"

"I say, you're rather unnerving for a half-Dwarf," the Goblin King said, edging away.

"You could start simply," Frerin offered. His light tone curdled Fíli's stomach. "Just cut the tendons in my fingers. That will have them screaming like ravenous wolves. Just listen to them now."

The Dwarves were writhing against their captors, shouting vulgar obscenities the like of which Fíli had never heard. He glanced at Kíli and knew his brother would be no help. Kíli was pale and grey, looking like he was ready to hurl.

"I say…. I don't believe I like this Dwarf," the Goblin King said anxiously. "Are you sure you really _want_ to be tortured? That rather takes the fun out of things."

Frerin shrugged lightly. "It can't be so bad. I always wondered what it was like to experience a bloody, gruesome dungeon scene first-hand."

"Frerin, are you insane?" Fíli burst out, aghast at the flippant remark. Frerin glared and held a finger to his lips.

"Now, now, let's see to this in an orderly fashion," the Goblin King said, raising his hands for silence. "I don't see any reason why we should start early. Why don't we see about this proposal of yours? Tea, was it? Yes, call on the Baggins side of this poor, wretched creature and let us see to the – erm, proper negotiations at once!"

"But we've already started the terms!" Frerin protested. "We don't have time for tea, now."

The Goblin King backed behind his throne. "I am the king, and I say we shall have tea! Goblins! Fetch me this so-called 'tea' and bring me _that_ Dwarf as a mediator."

Instantly Fíli was released. He brushed himself off and hurried to stand beside Frerin. "What in Mahal's name are you doing?"

"I don't know," Frerin hissed back. "Help me!"

"The, um… tortured party in question can't negotiate unless his … occupational companions are … less distracting." Fíli wet his lips as he scrambled for a proper way to explain "free the prisoners" to a hoard of goblins. "They are … screaming most abominably…."

"Isn't that the point?" the Goblin King said dryly.

"Screaming in – humiliation, not terror," Fíli blustered. "It's all very ... disconcerting. The tortured party in question cannot think."

Kíli, meanwhile, bit down sharply on his captor's hand and glared as he was thrown into an ungainly heap. "Fíli's right," he said, warming up to the game. "He can't speak if Thorin is yelling at him to shut up all the time."

"Kíli, stop this madness!" Thorin shouted.

"See what I mean?" Kíli sidled towards them, headstrong and brilliant as though he was king of the goblin caverns. "They're loud, arrogant and delusional. You'll never get any answers from them – certainly not this way."

"I never wanted answers," the Goblin King whimpered, quite forgetting his original goal. "All I want is to negotiate with the half-Hobbit!"

Kíli stretched his arms wide and bowed. "Mighty Goblin King, you have come to the right place."

"So help me, your mother will hear every word of this!" Thorin raged.

"Tell me, most amateur and diabolical brother of mine, what is the proper time for tea? And no, we have not skipped ahead to the terms of agreement. You are too hasty. Fíli, when do Hobbits take their tea?"

"Four," Frerin whispered, which Fíli relayed to Kíli.

"Excellent!" Kíli said. "Seeing as it is long past tea time, we shall continue this discussion tomorrow afternoon at –" he whispered to Fíli, "What would the time be here?"

"Four marks past noon?" Fíli ventured.

"Four marks past noon," Kíli finished grandly. "Until then, we wish you good health and much gold, and may we meet in good standing in the future."

"Now, now, where do you think you're going?" the Goblin King demanded, regaining his senses at the thought of his 'guests' leaving so abruptly. "I say there is no time for tea! Goblins - rig them to the bonesnappers! Turn them to jelly in the crushers! Flay every bit of flesh from their bones!"

"Blast you Dwarves!" Gandalf's voice rang out just before he slammed down his staff, filling the cavern with blinding light. "What did Elladan say about avoiding the Goblin paths? Must I save your hides every time?"

At once Fíli ducked and yanked Frerin down, covering his brother until Kíli scuttled back with their swords.

"Take this!" Fíli ordered, shoving a thick knife into Frerin's hand. He flipped his double swords upright, protecting Frerin from the right while Kíli defended from the opposite side. Their brother stumbled, flimsy and unused to weapons, and they compensated by surrounding him with a hurricane of steel.

Slowly the hoard melted before them. Fíli caught a glimpse of Gandalf neatly beheading one last goblin before they were hurtled into the glorious, clean air of the mountainside. Trees rustled and the warm glints of sunset bathed them in memory and hope.

"Where is he? Where is your brother?"

Pushing Kíli aside, Thorin pulled Frerin out and clenched his arms, looking torn between shaking the young Dwarf and embracing him. He released his nephew slowly, his eyes a dark, tormented blue.

"What were you thinking?" he asked hoarsely, desperation sifting out of fear. "You could have been killed!"

"I wasn't," Frerin said softly. "Fíli and Kíli are safe."

"Never, _never_ sacrifice yourself for any reason! You are the only pure memory your mother has left. Do not take that away from her."

Frerin looked down, awe softening his fear. Later Fíli would look back on that moment and wonder how much would have changed if Frerin had been given the chance to speak. The moment was shattered when Bilbo appeared in their midst.

"They – they're right behind us," he gasped, bracing his hands on his knees. "Orcs – not goblins. Not three hundred paces away."

Gandalf whirled and Thorin swore as the yelps of wargs filled the knoll.

"This way!" Gandalf commanded, hustling them deeper into the forest. "Take to the trees – not by the cliff, mind you. I don't trust the terrain."

Into the trees they leapt, nimble Kíli and sturdy Bombur, deliberate Bifur and tentative Ori. Bilbo lingered, prodding Frerin towards the stoutest tree.

"It's high – it's really high," Frerin gasped.

"Now is not the time, Frerin. Fíli, give him a hand!"

Swooping down, Fíli grabbed his brother's arm and hauled him up, passing him off to Kíli, who in turn swung Frerin to an even higher branch. Fíli helped Bilbo scramble up the trunk's wide girth and then the wargs were upon them, baying at the scent of warm, Dwarven blood.

And there, riding at the center of the pack with mace held high and a sneer exposing needle-thin teeth, was the epitome of brutality. Fíli whispered the name, remembering it only from stories. Frerin gasped and nearly fell from his perch. His voice took on a desperate, frantic pitch.

"Bilbo!"

* * *

Favorite = Azog offers you a mini warg plushie. Review = Thorin personally rescues you from every wolf poster/plushie/knickknack in your room.


	24. Because All I See is His Face Grinning

This story has reached the 200 review mark! (Showers gumdrops and happiness. Offers tea cakes and 'Frerin-tries-to-knit-and-fails' scarves to everybody)(Scarves are exchangeable with "Thorin was coerced into knitting and burned the yarn" bundles)

* * *

_Thorin stood by on that bloody night, standing on the bodies of his soldiers, listening as agony rent the air. Crimson flooded the last patch of snow. He waited too long. Only when the warg began to drag his brother did the stupor release him and he screamed Frerin's name._

_Heavy arms pinned Thorin's hands to his sides and he struggled, slinging his head back to break his foe._

"_Thorin, leave him!" It was Thrain's jagged, forceful tone; the tone which Thorin never argued. "It's too late."_

_But the screams continued and Thorin crumpled to one knee, sobbing as he heard his name wrenched out over and over, before the voice trailed into silence._

_It was Dwalin who approached him, hands red with blood of kin and not Orc, his tread heavy with betrayal. "He'll not be in any more pain, Thorin."_

_By the pool of Mirrormere Dwalin left him, one bloodied, crippled hand trailing in the water, slit legs limp and disjointed. Thorin's own guilt bore him down into melancholy every winter, when the wind howled like a dying moan and he cradled a child too sickly to beg for relief. He never imagined how it crushed Dwalin to tend that fragile bairn, all the while thinking of a life he had mercifully ended – a life he had sworn to protect._

* * *

(TA 2912, 39 years before the Quest. Frerin is nearly 13)

"Rakhâs," Frerin whispered, clutching Bilbo's arm as the blizzard raged outside. "Rakhâs."

Bilbo's limited vocabulary translated that to 'Frerin is scared of the storm.' "It can't hurt you," he assured, sipping his tea and hugging the Dwarfling a little closer.

"Rakhâs."

"It won't get to you here." Bilbo picked up his book, reading softly for Frerin's benefit. Perhaps a warm, sweet tea and a distraction would draw the lad's mind away from his worries. Nudging Frerin, Bilbo pressed his mug into the small hands. "Here; you need this more than I do."

Frerin's fingers went lax and he gasped as the mug slipped right through his hands. Pained dark eyes lanced through Bilbo and he bustled to excuse the destitute child.

"No, nothing to be worried about, Frerin." Grabbing a cloth, Bilbo quickly mopped up the mess. "See? Nothing harmed. It's perfectly all right."

Frerin wrapped his arms around his head, digging his knees into his eyes as he whimpered, "Amad! Amad!"

"Of course, how doltheaded of me," Bilbo murmured. He scooped up the child and let him cry, rubbing his back soothingly. "The storm makes you think of your mother. Well, that makes two of us, lad, and I'm afraid I'm not a good replacement for either of them."

"Bihbo!" Frerin keened, hiding in the Hobbit's sweater. "Nod deah, pease!"

"No, I'm not … I'm not sure what you mean." Sighing, Bilbo settled down in his armchair and stared at the glowing coals in the hearth.

"Nod deah," Frerin whispered frantically. "Nod deah. Nod deah."

He gasped, choked, and fell still.

"Oh, dear," Bilbo muttered. "Frerin, are you …? Oh, dear." The poor child seemed to be having one of his 'fits' again. He wouldn't speak until breakfast the next morning, if that soon. "There, now. I know you miss them. I know winter is harsh, but I'm here. I'm here, Frerin."

Frerin snuffled and buried his head in Bilbo's neck, tucking away his worries in the soft comfort of his guardian's arms.

* * *

Present Quest, TA 2941)

"Azog."

Bilbo heard the name whispered right before Frerin gasped, and the fear which gripped his heart had nothing to do with his own personal wellbeing.

Frerin sobbed and pressed his forehead against the tree, squeezing his eyes shut. "Wake up, wake up, wake up!"

"Frerin!" Bilbo grabbed the Dwarf's wrist, shaking him back to awareness. "Frerin, stop it! You can't panic now. I need you to think."

But the Dwarf's eyes were pools of terror. He jerked away, hitching a breath. "Bilbo? Bilbo?"

"They're coming!" Kíli exclaimed. He adjusted his grip right before the first warg smashed into their tree.

"Up higher!" Fíli ordered, pushing Frerin ahead. Driven by the flashing teeth, Frerin didn't hesitate to scramble for the leaner bows. He swayed dangerously, as pale as the moon rising behind him.

"Hold steady!" Thorin shouted. Bilbo saw flashes of Gandalf's magic, and cheered when a burst of fire caught one warg's fur like a sprinkle of candlelight on a midsummer's eve.

But his smile vanished as the Pale Orc raised his clawed arm and the Orcs threw their mounts into a frenzied attack. Three of them launched at Bilbo's tree, smashing and crunching with blows that shivered the spindly top.

Fíli's eyes widened. "Down," he breathed, pushing Kíli's shoulder. "Down, get down! They're going to topple it!"

Instantly Kíli reached for a far hanging limb, swinging himself easily onto the branches of another tree. He held out his hand and before Bilbo could protest, he was flung into the prince's arms. Kíli shuffled him swiftly to the trunk and reached out for Frerin.

Somewhere in the process of climbing, stretching and jumping, something gave. Frerin's eyes flew wide as his hands flew to his bruised, battered spine. He wavered, grabbed for Fíli, and missed Kíli's hand.

The wargs smashed into the trunk and neither prince could regain their balance.

"No!" Kíli screamed, while at the same time Bilbo shouted, "Frerin!"

Fíli hit one limb, slammed into a heap at the base of the tree, and lay still. Frerin crashed through feathery pine branches and rolled straight in front of a warg. He shrieked like a rabbit and scrabbled at his back, face taut with agony. With a final _crunch_ the tree spiraled down beside him.

"Frerin!" Kíli tore through the branches ahead of Bilbo, whipping out his sword to jab at the first warg's snout.

"Kíli, no!"

Thorin's warning was seconds too late. Instantly another warg lunged from behind and grabbed Kíli around the middle, shaking him senseless before bashing him against the ground. It waited, salivating, for Azog to give permission.

The White Orc laughed. Dark, mocking tones rolled as one of the Orcs dismounted and grabbed Kíli from behind, twisting his neck and waist in a way that would break his spine with one effortless snap.

"Thorin!" Kíli eyes flitted desperately to his brothers.

"So ends your filthy line, Thorin Oakenshield!" Azog gloated as he raised his mace. Two Orcs braced an unconscious Fíli against the snapped tree stump, readying him for the mace's blow that would crush his torso.

Visible, vulnerable, helpless; Thorin could do nothing. But he was not alone.

One glance was all that Frerin needed. One glimpse into Bilbo's frightened eyes, before the Hobbit bravely drew his sword. They both knew what it meant. They were fighting Orcs with letter openers, and they would die protecting their family.

Twisting with a shout, Frerin rolled beneath Azog's mount and drew his dagger. Instantaneously Bilbo vanished. The white warg snapped at the youngest Durin, capturing him easily in the crunching jaws. At the same moment Kíli's Orc suddenly released his grip, a sword glowing blue through his punctured forehead. Frerin's dagger arced to the right and the white warg yelped, its vision blotted in a slurry of blood. Instinctively its jaws clamped down and Frerin screamed, just before Bilbo dashed in from the other side and slashed wildly, blinding the warg completely.

Kíli leapt to Fíli's aid, beheading the Orcs which held him and flinging his brother safely to the ground. Gandalf's fireballs took out the warg that nearly bit off Kíli's head, while Dwalin caved in the skull of another. The other Dwarves raced in from the sidelines, challenging the wargs with their own raging howls.

Blinded, weakened; the white warg dropped Frerin and stumbled over him, seeking its unseen foe. Bilbo stabbed ineffectively at its torso, drawing Azog's attention while Frerin tumbled and flipped his dagger in an intricate sweep along the hind legs. Hamstrung, the warg collapsed into a whimpering mass.

Bellowing his fury, Azog retaliated on the first creature that came to hand. Iron fingers wrapped around Frerin's wrist, clenching slowly as he dangled from the air. The young prince gasped softly as his dagger _pinged_ in the dust. Thorin shouted and Azog turned to leer at him, slowly bringing up his metal hand….

Only to swing to the right, catching Bilbo as he ran to Frerin's aid. Metal rapped against the Hobbit's chin and he crashed into an Orc. His forehead struck iron and he collapsed just before Azog's feet: invisible; invulnerable; utterly useless.

Roaring, Azog swung Frerin by his arm and slammed him against the ground. The young Dwarf choked, clawing for breath as his lungs seized. With deliberate precision Azog planted his foot on Frerin's right shoulder and twisted the thumb.

Instantly Frerin began writhing, screeching as he clawed at Azog's hand. Bone crunched softy and he threw his head back with a frantic shriek.

"_Bilbo! Bilbo!"_

And Thorin faltered. It was the burglar whom Frerin trusted. It was the Hobbit whom he sought. Something twisted, shattered and bled inside, and for a moment he dropped his hand.

He had lost Frerin all over again.

Furiously he charged, Dwalin rushing in at his right, Kíli on his left. Another delicate finger snapped and Frerin tried biting the monstrous hand, tears pattering the ash around him.

"Bilbo!"

Kíli was too impetuous. Enraged, he bounded off a decapitated warg, sword raised high for a killing blow. Azog batted him aside, his clawed hand ripping through the prince's leg, and meticulously returned to his work. The central bone in Frerin's right hand _crunched_.

"Enough!" Thorin could see the cunning in Azog's eyes before three more wargs spurred in front of him, cutting the Dwarves off. Dwalin's axe was a blur of chipped metal as he barged his way through the mass, shouting for his son. Azog watched them serenely as he twisted Frerin's smallest finger. Instantly it was another boy Thorin saw – a few years older and a good deal leaner – who screamed and pleaded for his brother, only to cry in despair when no one came. Crimson blotted Thorin's vision and he bellowed in Khuzdul, vowing that he had seen death for the last time.

With a sudden crash they were through the barrier, the Pale Orc rising to meet their challenge. Azog swung his mace wide, driving the Dwarves back even as he kicked Frerin away. The boy rolled beside a burning tree and he blanched at the heat, crawling to escape the flames.

"Frerin!"

It was a blur of gold that grabbed hold of him and dragged him away from Azog's crusher. Fíli ducked behind a tree, holding his brother close as Azog kicked Dwalin back and strode towards them. Blue light waned clear against the fire's glow and suddenly Bilbo was there, quaky and inexperienced and stupidly courageous as he raised his sword.

"You're not touching him again."

Even as Azog tilted his head in derision at the insignificant creature, Thorin slid in from the rear. His sword pierced Azog's foot and the Pale Orc lurched. Cursing in black speech, Azog lashed out at his hated foe and bore his mace into the ground inches from Thorin's leg. Hurricane winds swept him aside an instant later. The fires smothered and wargs screeched as giant claws pinioned them and scattered them off the cliffs. One such claw scored Azog's head and torso and he fell to the side, roaring as blood sluiced down his face.

"They're Eagles!" Bilbo shouted, running to pull Fíli into the open. "Fíli, look! They – they're here to help us, I'm sure of it!"

One by one the Company was scooped into golden claws. Kíli shouted for his older brother, gasping as his torn leg was shifted. Dwalin vigorously threatened the majestic birds before he was knocked off his feet and forcibly carried.

Frerin hung limp in Fíli's arms, his eyes nothing more than dark tombs.

"No. No, Frerin, stay with me!" Fíli whispered, shaking his brother gently. "Look at me, Frerin. Don't shut me out. Confound it all, _breathe_ already!"

Frerin did breathe, and that terrified Fíli most of all, for in all else his brother looked to be dead.

* * *

**Have some angst**. The Muses finally offered their assistance on this one, provided that I meted out some serious whump. :( I do not have nice muses.

Favorite = Bifur gives you his scythe for one hour of cosplay. Review = Bilbo reads you a bedtime novel. (Your choice of literature, so long as it includes dragons.)


	25. Close Your Eyes Until Tomorrow

_When his brother had been born, Thorin had been fascinated. He stood over Frerin's crib, curious about the bright eyes and hands that were as delicate as petals. Their mother looked on proudly, confident that her strong young boy would care for his little brother._

_Dwalin was naturally intrigued. Every now and then Thorin passed off the bundle and Dwalin cradled the princeling cautiously, marveling that such a tiny life was not crushed in his giant hands. Thorin trusted that his friend would not squash Frerin, and he sometimes left the babe in Dwalin's care while he looked for more interesting things._

_When Frerin was three, Balin mentioned serenely that Thorin seemed bored of his brother. The elder prince was a warrior, fierce and proud, with the beginnings of a fine, dark beard spreading down his cheeks. Frerin bumbled his way into everything. He tripped up his brother, cried when he was ignored, and spent a good amount of time earning his mother's sympathy._

_By the time Frerin was five, Thorin complained openly that he was too small, too whiny, and too annoying to be in the room when 'important matters' were taking place. These implications meant that Thorin read alone, trained alone, ate alone, and Frerin played by himself. Thorin was satisfied with the arrangement._

_Frerin was persistent._

_He started toddling after Dwalin, hoping to catch his brother's attention by winning the affection of his friends. Thorin sighed, slung his brother over his shoulder, and deposited Frerin in his room without a word. This counted as attention, and Frerin tried it over and over again._

_Until he was seven, and Thorin had enough._

_Dwalin heard the slap in the other room, followed by a whimpered cry and a soft curse._

"_I didn't mean to …. Oh, just go away, Frerin!"_

_Frerin hid with Dwalin instead, and an irate Thorin hauled him back to his room with more force than necessary. The pattern continued until Thorin forgot to be guilty every time he was harsh, and Frerin assumed his brother hated him._

_The babe still crept up behind Dwalin every now and then, admiring the Dwarf's might and wondering if he could ever do anything great enough to earn protection from dust bunnies and shouting grandfathers._

_Over a century later, Dwalin tried to redeem that lost affection in the life of his own wee bairn. Frerin son of D__ís was more flighty than his namesake, however, and on some dark, blustery nights he cowered from his Adad. It tore Dwalin's heart. Sometimes he agreed with Dís, wondering if the ghost of her brother haunted Frerin. He coaxed his son and gentled him like a spooked colt, like he was Thorin's brother flitting through the shadows of Erebor, until Frerin no longer jumped when his father's shadow fell into the room._

_He swore he would protect the bairn. No sword or blade would mar the fragile hands. His son would be a warrior, fierce and proud, and he would stand alongside his brothers with the independence and courage of a true prince. Dwalin never raised a hand to his son, nor would he ever._

_One slain prince had taken what little violence was in his soul and crushed it._

* * *

(TA 2913, 28 years before the quest. Frerin is almost 14)

It was the last person Bilbo expected who solved the matter of Frerin's panic attacks. Kæzog's glittering black eyes always unnerved the Hobbit, but the tall Man's shrewd look when Frerin came face to face with a wolfhound and fainted had Bilbo scooping up the child before anything unfortunate could befall him.

"Whoa, whoa," Kæzog said, swinging his lanky form down from the outpost sign. "Something happen to the kit?"

"Get out of here!" Bilbo said to the dog. He yipped when it snapped at him.

"Git out!" Kæzog yelled. He kicked at the hound and sneered when it scrabbled away. "Pesky mutts." He crouched beside Bilbo like a great white crow missing its wings. "What happened to the scrappy thing?"

"Nothing," Bilbo said, rubbing Frerin's shoulder. "He just gets a little panicked sometimes."

"Huh." Kæzog reached in obtrusively and swept back Frerin's bangs. He frowned.

"Something wrong with his head, I assume?" Bilbo snapped. He had no intention of being nasty, but he tired of outsiders intruding on personal space.

"No, I thought…." Kæzog shrugged. "Maybe I met his family once. Something about those ugly brown eyes. Here." He took Frerin's hand, large white palms swallowing it as Kæzog slowly rubbed. Frerin watched him with dazed, unseeing eyes.

"When pups can't walk properly, you soothe the paws." Kæzog continued rubbing, gathering Frerin's fingers and bending them closed and open and closed again. He repeated this with the other hand and continued interchanging until the dull gleam left Frerin's eyes and he watched the proceedings with interest.

"How … how did you know what to do?" Bilbo asked in perturb.

Kæzog shrugged and rose to his feet. "Instinct. Don't ask me to do it again – I'm not a baby sitter for Dwarf mutts."

"Thank you," Bilbo said, smiling as Frerin yawned and rested his head on his guardian's shoulder.

Kæzog scowled. "Don't mention it. Ever. You'll make me out to be a compassionate wimp." He slung his sword over his shoulder and strode off without a backwards glance.

"Bilbo?" Frerin murmured sleepily. He sighed in content and closed his eyes.

"Well, what do you know about that?" Bilbo said quietly. Maybe some big folk weren't quite as tyrannical as he thought.

* * *

(TA 2931, 10 years before the quest. Frerin is 32)

Ten years of haunting Frerin's diaries – of which there were many, and Bilbo had been forced to move them from a small chest to his mother's glory box – and Frerin's dreams began to intercept his own. Sometimes Bilbo found himself outside his Hobbit hole on the night he found Frerin, only this time Kæzog stood over the child, his sword and the snow around him drenched with blood. Sometimes Frerin was thirty in the dreams. Sometimes he was only twelve. Either way Bilbo woke with his heart pounding and revulsion tainting his mouth.

After one such nightmare, Bilbo dared not touch the diaries for a full two weeks. It was the beginning of winter, and Frerin had little to write, anyways. The poor lad stayed up well into the night – sometimes for days on end – before exhaustion won and he fell asleep in the middle of tea. Even if Bilbo was there to wake him every hour, the nightmares clung to his mind until he looked like a maddened dog with red eyes and listless hands.

They both stayed awake this night, Frerin nodding over a book and catching himself every time he dozed, and Bilbo twitchily holding a mug of re-warmed tea. It struck Bilbo how utterly odd and ridiculous this was.

"You should try to sleep – even for an hour," he encouraged, rubbing his eyes.

Frerin shook his head blearily, trying to focus on Bilbo's words. "You c'n sleep," he said slowly, taking a long swallow of his cold tea. "Y'don't hafta stay up with me."

"Posh and nonsense," Bilbo said wearily. "You've been awake for the past two days. Haven't you tried the medicine the apothecary gave you?"

"Hate it," Frerin mumbled as he returned to his book. "Can't wake up."

"Well, something needs to be done." Bilbo sighed. "You can't keep going on like this."

Swaying, Frerin peered at the clock. "It's eleven, Bilbo. Midnight'll be soon."

"Which always fixes things," Bilbo said snarkily.

"It will this time."

Twenty minutes later, Bilbo had dozed off in his chair. Frerin put aside the book and rose quietly, laying a blanket over the Hobbit. Weaving to the window, he pressed his forehead against the glass and watched the crystal flakes fall.

The clock struck midnight.

Sighing, Frerin pulled the curtain and curled up in a chair across from Bilbo. He closed his eyes at last and let sleep claim him.

* * *

(Present Quest, TA 2941)

"Let me see him!"

"Move aside!"

Before Bilbo could so much as roll off the Eagle, Frerin was thronged by his kin. Dwalin shoved his way in first, replacing Fíli as he took his son with infinite care. He all but snarled at Thorin when the leader tried to break in. Thorin moved aside and bellowed for Oin, pushing Nori out of the way. Jumping in his anxiety, Bilbo begged for news. He was soundly ignored, and a frustrated Kíli finally tried to break through the throng. His maimed leg buckled and he rolled in pain, shouting until Fíli ran to support him.

"Gandalf!" Thorin called. "He will not wake."

"Out of my way, all of you," Gandalf commanded, prodding aside the gaggle of Dwarves. He bent over Frerin, his back to Bilbo. After a moment Gandalf shook his head.

"There is no injury hampering his mind. I suspect he needs time, Thorin. He has suffered much."

"I can help him," Bilbo spoke up. Thorin cast him a skeptical glance and Bilbo straightened determinedly. "I know what to do."

Dwalin scrutinized him ruthlessly and slowly nodded. "All right. Try for yourself, Master Baggins."

Thorin moved to Frerin's other side, while Fíli and Kíli looked on anxiously. Dwalin refused to loosen his hold. They were back to the contest for ownership. No matter; so long as Frerin made it through whole, Bilbo hardly cared what happened.

"Don't hold him so tightly," Bilbo said, keeping his voice soft. "Give him room to breathe."

The glazed look in Frerin's eyes still chilled him. Bilbo took the lad's left hand and squeezed it gently, rubbing Frerin's palm and curling the still fingers down and up again. Frerin gasped and whimpered softly, before his frazzled mind finally realized the movement was accompanied by tenderness and not pain. After a few minutes he blinked steadily and looked up.

"Bilbo?"

"I'm here," Bilbo whispered, continuing to massage the Dwarf's uninjured hand. "You're safe, Frerin. Azog is gone."

Frerin shuddered and pulled away, his eyes blanking for a moment as he twisted out of Dwalin's arms. Just as quickly the fit passed and he tucked his right hand against his chest, rubbing his eyes like a sleepy toddler. "Bilbo?"

"He's going to need some time to pull out of this," Bilbo said to Gandalf. "Is there anywhere safe we can camp?"

"Beorn's house is but a day's journey from here," Gandalf said. "One of us will carry him for now."

"I will take him," Thorin said at once. Dwalin's brow furrowed and Bilbo's eyebrows flew up.

"Wait, I didn't –"

Before Bilbo could voice his protest Thorin gathered up the fragile Dwarf. Frerin sucked in a gasp and writhed, kicking out until Thorin put him down, baffled.

"His back!" Bilbo snapped, turning Frerin over and massaging the rippling muscles. "He took a nasty fall, if you didn't notice." He didn't mention the Stone Giants – no need to give Thorin another reason to lecture his nephew.

"Here, I know how to properly carry him," Bilbo said, helping Frerin sit up so that he could ride on his shoulders. The Took side was winning out to often these days – he was becoming as snippy as Lobelia!

"You won't get far without tiring," Dwalin said. He clapped Bilbo's shoulder and offered his own broad shoulders. "I won't let him be hurt."

Bilbo wanted to argue – wanted to keep Frerin by him always, and away from these barbarous Dwarves who dragged Orcs in their wake – but he slowly relinquished Frerin, not missing the shiver that rippled through the small frame.

"He's your father," he told Frerin, pushing the hair out of his face. "You remember Dwalin, don't you? He's going to take care of you."

There was an anxiety in Frerin's eyes that unnerved Bilbo. Slowly the Dwarfling nodded, however, and let his head sink onto Dwalin's shoulder. He stayed that way for the entire journey; eyes closed, brow furrowed in thought, blocking out everything.

Something had shifted.

* * *

It was nearly dusk when the massive oak door slid open and a bear of a man stepped out. Beorn's scowl lengthened his entire face and Bilbo felt like a shivering rabbit under his stare.

"Why do you bring Dwarves to my doorstep?"

"Were it my own choice, I would have delayed until a more appropriate moment," Gandalf said. "We are being pursued by Orcs, however, and several in our company have been injured. We ask food and shelter tonight, and in return I will tell you the absurd story of how a few Dwarves held back the Goblin King with notions of tea parties, until I had the chance to wallop off his head."

One scruffy eyebrow rose. "I do not like Dwarves," Beorn said in a hateful rasp. "They're greedy, and blind to anything save their own souls. They kill and betray, Orc and kin alike. I have no need of Dwarves within my halls."

"In this case, I would ask you to make an exception," Gandalf said. "Bilbo, would you come here with Frerin?"

Dwalin and Bilbo exchanged a perplexed look and approached.

"You know of Halfings," Gandalf introduced, placing a hand warmly on Bilbo's shoulder. "This is Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. In his care is young Frerin, son of Dís, daughter of Thrain."

Beorn looked up sharply at this. "The heirs of the Mountain are no more."

"There were a few that survived," Gandalf said. "Frerin is the youngest. He was tortured by Azog."

Beorn's fist clenched and Gandalf nodded in confirmation.

"The Dwarves must enter the Lonely Mountain and end Azog's reign. Will you shelter us for the night and send us on our way?"

Thunder clouded Beorn's expression, but slowly he nodded. "Aye. If you bring me Azog's head when he is slain."

"_That_ trophy will be warred over by many kingdoms," Gandalf said. He smiled thinly and motioned for Bilbo to enter. "Off you go then, Master Baggins. You will find you have nothing to fear in Beorn's halls."

Dwalin pushed him from the other side, and with a muted squeak Bilbo was ushered through the doorway. Beorn watched with stoic disapproval as the Dwarves slowly filed inside. The ceiling was high and dark, and the only illumination was from a blazing hearth that warmed Bilbo's toes even at the threshold. Barred windows and thickly woven rugs gave it an unhomely appearance.

"Lay your companions by the hearth," Beorn said, "Or wherever you wish to keep them. Only, do not disturb the animals – they have more rights to these halls than you. Should you wander outside, your fate shall be upon your own head. I will expect your tale tomorrow morning, Gandalf."

Bilbo shivered as the door slammed shut. "Is he always that…cold?"

"Beorn is not accustomed to visitors, especially Dwarves," Gandalf said. "We shall be grateful for his hospitality tonight. Now then, let us tend to the wounded and rest while we may. There will be food in the morning, and perhaps if you mind yourselves and leave the talking to me, I might procure us some ponies."

Kíli's leg was sutured first. Azog's claws had rent four gashes in his thigh, which Oin remarked might have cost him his life had they been a trifle deeper. Fíli lay in the darkest corner of the room with a cold compress over his eyes, and for his sake the Dwarves lulled their clamor to a whisper. Nori's right leg had been gashed. Dwalin had been stabbed in the forearm, but he would not leave Frerin while Oin tended him. Ori was more frightened than hurt, and Dori tutted over him enough to make up for three apothecaries. Gloin and Bifur were relatively uninjured. Balin kept to himself, trimming the ends of his savaged beard. Bombur also was unharmed, and spent much of his time ferrying between the three injured Durins; finding extra pillows for Fíli's head, a hot, damp cloth for Kíli's leg, and a cheery smile for Frerin.

Thorin paced between his nephews. He crouched frequently beside Frerin, studying the broken hand but not daring to touch. Frerin's eyes were vacant again. Bilbo hoped it was spring meadows and bonny laughter he thought of, and not the waking nightmare left behind.

"All those years, I wanted to protect him," Thorin murmured. "I should have forced him to return to his mother."

"He wouldn't have listened," Bilbo said. "He's stubborn that way – he gets it from Lobelia."

Thorin gave him a hard look and Bilbo hastily clarified, "My cousin, from the Sacksville-Baggins side. You've never heard me mention her?"

From the look in Thorin's eyes, he neither had heard nor cared to know. His attention was focused solely on Frerin. Bilbo watched the light flicker across Thorin eyes and tried to see past the shell that made him king. He wanted to find the brother that Frerin spoke of in his diaries – the one he despised.

Whoever that Thorin was, he must have died soon after his brother. Bilbo only saw sick-hearted worry and guilt. The rough gentleness as Thorin rubbed his thumb down a scratch on Frerin's cheek, the wince as he found a developing bruise….

It was all very _un_-Thorin.

"All right, lad, let me through." Oin rudely prodded Bilbo out of the way and began his cursory examination of the youngest heir.

"Softly with him, Oin," Thorin warned.

"I have never been harsh with the lads, in all their years."

"Be gentler," Dwalin said gruffly. "He knows a quieter life."

The diaries flitted from Bilbo's mind, and he contented himself with watching Oin work. The healer moved quickly, pushing bones into place and wrapping splints around Frerin's hand from fingertips to wrist. He bandaged the young Dwarf's torso, muttering about cracked ribs and the stubbornness of Durin's line, then finally slicked a stinging salve into the gash where a tooth had broken off in Frerin's shoulder.

All the while Dwalin held the bairn, and Bilbo felt no need to interfere. There was something right in the firelit scene. It was no imagining that Frerin sank into his father's touch, a peacefulness settling into his eyes despite their emptiness. He barely stirred when Oin dug the tooth out of his shoulder, and when it was all over he closed his eyes with a sigh.

"Well, now, that seems more like it," Oin said chirpily. "He knows where he belongs."

Bilbo promptly cleared his throat and rose. "Yes, well, he can't sleep there all night. Likely to develop a crick in his neck."

Dwalin scowled, and Bilbo knew his ploy was no secret. Thorin decided to interfere. "If you tire of sitting there, Master Baggins, you might make yourself useful by helping one of the others. You will find no shortage of tasks."

Bilbo twitched and forced a smile. Possessive-family had won, stubborn-surrogate-father was still in the backdrop. No matter. He knew more about Frerin than the memories of all thirteen Dwarves combined. He wasn't giving him up – not even to a dragon.

Puttering around eventually dwindled to twiddling his thumbs, and the fire died low. Dwalin fell asleep leaning against the hearth, Frerin still cradled against his chest.

"Best not to disturb him," Balin said. "The lad won't suffer for it, and it does us all good to see him where he belongs."

"Of course," Bilbo responded. He straightened his back and looked into the wide guest room, wondering if he should turn in and leave Frerin to himself for a few hours.

Looking back at the hearth, he realized that Frerin was very much awake. Dark eyes searched the room before racing to Bilbo.

"Hush! Hush, now," Bilbo said, rushing forward and patting the young Dwarf's hand. "Oin says to rest."

"Bilbo," Frerin croaked.

"You had a bad fall," Bilbo filled in quickly. "You were wounded, and Oin patched you up. There's nothing to be afraid of."

Frerin shook his head. He closed his eyes, listening to the Dwarves breathe. "Bilbo, I feel like I've just woken up."

"Well, you have been nearly unconscious for several hours."

"No, Bilbo," Frerin insisted, "I feel like I just _woke up_."

"Whatever do you mean?" Bilbo whispered.

"The world…" Frerin's voice became very small. "The world is an awful place."

Bilbo tried to make light of his worries. "Now, Frerin, you and I both know that Orcs are the worst creatures on Middle Earth. Not everything is quite so terrible."

"Bilbo." Frerin swallowed, glanced subtly at the other room, then tightened his grip on Bilbo's hand. "I don't think I'm dreaming anymore. I'm afraid for morning to come and show me… nothing has changed."

His voice dropped to a desperate plea. "I don't want it to happen, Bilbo. Please, don't let them kill me!"

* * *

_"Didn't you get my message? Of course Thorin was here! He and his barbaric nephews…. The small one? Never knew they had one. Must be a runt in case the others are killed off. I certainly hope they haven't stowed away any more of those foul worms. Beastly little things would rip your arm off! – Begging your pardon, no offense meant, of course. …. You say Thorin doesn't have another heir? Well, that's what I said myself. Calls itself Frerin, this one – only a half-Dwarf, mind you, and an obscene one, at that. Do you know he likes to be tortured? He and his inhumane kin! Why, if I could have ripped their heads off and sent you the … Oh, of course, you want them alive. …. Yes, they had a ghastly wizard assisting them. … No, no, he didn't seem to accept the boy as any relation … Oh, you mean Thorin? I don't know, he seemed as protective of the scrappy thing as any other deranged uncle…. You think that was important? … His name? Well, I told you before – Frerin, son of a Hobbit, of all creatures, nephew of Thorin Oakenshield. Detestable bastard, that one – no wonder they hid him away…. Oh, you want him back? Well, I can't say I have that many goblins to spare…. Oh. Spare them anyways. I see… No, no, if you want him then by all means, let Azog have his prize. We'll cooperate as much as …. Yes, I see. Shut up and let you go about your business. Very well, then. Best of luck with your task."_

* * *

Favorite = The Goblin King sings you a ballad. Review = Gandalf offers you your choice of weather for the day. ("I am not a weather wizard!") Fine, Gandalf invites you to tea on Bilbo's 111th birthday.


	26. Dreams of Another World

**The Muses are looking for prompts for itty-bitty-Frerin!, both in his past with Fili and Kili and his past with Bilbo. Send them a quick note if you have any ideas. ;)**

Disclaimer: If it wasn't mentioned before, I do not own The Hobbit or Frerin (sadly!) or anything related to Tolkien's works.

* * *

"_Frerin, just eat it already!"_

_Dís chuckled as Kíli wiped mashed beet off his face. _

"_And stop throwing it in my face, you little goblin!"_

"_Mak!"_

"_Mum, he won't eat."_

"_He's three, Kíli. Let him feed himself."_

"_But he can't even hold the spoon!" Sighing, Kíli scooped up a stewed carrot and roved it in front of Frerin's face." Come on, Frerin. Pretend you're a pony and eat the nice, juicy carrot."_

"_Dinner ready?" Fíli called as he stomped inside. "Ooh, looks like fun!"_

"_You try it." Kíli grumped. _

"_He won't eat until six marks." Fíli tossed a cloth at Kíli's face and scooped up Frerin. "Besides, you picked all the wrong foods. Mashed turnip and gravy? Yuck."_

"_Mum fixed it," Kíli warned._

"_I never said I didn't like it, I just said that Frerin wouldn't eat it. Where's the honey jar."_

"_No. You're not touching that. That's my personal stash, Fíli!"_

"_Well, you'll have to find some more, won't you?" Slathering honey onto a chunk of soft bread, Fíli widened his eyes and waved it in front of Frerin' nose. "Look at that, Frerin! Honey! Just before dinner!"_

_Giggling, Frerin grabbed the sticky snack and shoved it into his mouth._

"_Fine. You feed him!" Kíli said, flipping the spoon over his shoulder._

"_Clean that mess off the wall right now," Dís ordered. "Fíli, what are you doing home so late?"_

"_Bit of trouble with the merchant party," Fíli said. "Someone tried to cheat us. Thorin is sorting it."_

"_I could help," Kíli offered hopefully. "I know half the traders west of Bree. I could work –"_

_Dis sighed. "No, Kíli. Until __Nhalí __returns I need someone to help me look after Nihmli and Frerin. Ori is ill, as is Oin's wife, and Oin says it's frightfully contagious."_

"_But Fíli –"_

"_Is the only one I can afford to lend to Thorin at the moment. If he gets sick, he's staying as far away from you as possible."_

_On cue Fíli sneezed, and Frerin cheerfully mimicked the sound._

"_Come on, Kíli," Dís said, patting his shoulder. "I need your help more than anything. Will you be patient with your mother?"_

_Kíli smiled and hugged her tight. Goodness, even sitting down the lad reached her chin!_

"_I'll stay, Mum. It's not that bad. Besides, Frerin needs someone to nap with him."_

_Dís snorted. "Your laziness compliments your brother's tardiness. How ever did I raise such disgraceful sons?"_

"_Oh, you know we all get it from Thorin's side of the family," Fíli teased. He winked as Thorin walked in. "Speaking of which, time to look busy before Uncle Thunder-Brows settles into his usual cranky fit."_

"_Fíli!" Kíli hushed. He grinned at Thorin. "Hello, Uncle!"_

"_Evening," Thorin grunted as he shook off his boots. _

"_Look at my floor!" Dís tutted._

"_Did it work out all right?" Kíli asked animatedly, slinging backwards over his chair and propping his chin in his hand. "Did the traders make amends, or did we lose in the bargain?"_

"_They left for a more gullible town." Thorin looked pointedly at Dís and made a show of hanging his coat neatly by the fire. She humphed in response and bustled about readying supper. _

"_Will we accompany the next wagon train?" Kíli asked. "There's gold and silver to guard, I hear, and they pay well if –"_

"_In a few more years you can cross the mountains," Thorin said. "Until then, practice your swordwork."_

_Kíli slumped in his chair. "But Dwalin says I'm ready!"_

"_He is not your uncle."_

"_I call him that," Kíli muttered._

"'_Mister Dwalin' doesn't count," Fíli corrected quietly. He glanced between the two, whistled low, and slipped out of the conflict._

"_Wait until you're forty," Thorin said to Kíli. _

"_It's two more years, Uncle!" Kíli sighed and flopped back against the table. "Fine. I'll babysit Frerin and have Ori teach me to knit diapers."_

_Frerin squealed in horror._

"_He doesn't need diapers anymore," Dis said, lightly pinching her youngest's cheek to console him._

"_Does too," Kíli muttered._

"_Enough arguments. Kíli, wood on the fire. Fíli, wash up for supper."_

"_Yes, Uncle," the boys chorused._

_Frerin crept under the table and stuffed his fingers into his mouth._

"_Dwalin isn't home yet?" Thorin guessed, surreptitiously watching the bairn._

"_Not until tomorrow," Dís said. "Supper's getting cold."_

_Six marks came and went, and Frerin stayed under the table. In the cold night air, the first snowflakes of winter began to fall._

* * *

(TA 2923, 17 years before the Quest. Frerin is 24)

"It looks quite … unique. But I don't know what it is."

"It's a door hanger, Bilbo." Frerin rolled his eyes. "You drill a hole in the door, crank down the scope, and then you can see anyone who comes to visit and decide whether or not you're home."

Bilbo raised his eyebrows and set the contraption down. "No, I'm afraid it will not do. We are no drilling through a perfectly good door just to see if Lobelia is coming. I know you would let her in, and if you didn't she would barge through anyways."

"But you like Lobelia," Frerin said in confusion.

"Tolerate. There is a difference. Just because she's married to my cousin – "

"Does not mean you're entitled to favor her. Yes, I heard it from Drogo." Frerin carefully folded the scope and dropped it into the chest containing the rest of his odd, unusable contraptions. "Don't you ever want to invite her in just to talk? She is a close neighbor."

"Too close, I'm afraid. She walked off with my spoons, next thing she'll walk off with you. No, Lobelia can stay right where she is."

Frerin snorted. "You just don't like it that she never offers you cake."

"And she has bad hospitality," Bilbo agreed. "Perfectly good reason to shun her invitations."

"She made me a polliwog pond," Frerin defended.

"You were fourteen, and they died because you both forgot to feed them. In fact, if I remember correctly, you mourned for an entire month until Gandalf presented you with two frogs and claimed he had magicked them back to life."

Frerin grinned sheepishly. "Everyone believes in magic when they're fauntlings."

"And older," Bilbo said, fondly remembering stories of trolls and globes of fire that glowed green and blue.

"Hm…" Distracted, Frerin glanced out the window. He hummed softly and selected a book from Bilbo's shelf before backing towards the door. "It's still an hour before tea. I'll just be in the garden shed."

"Rain again," Bilbo muttered as the Dwarfling flitted out the door."Never understood why anyone would appreciate such beastly weather."

He glanced sideways at the bookshelf. Leafing trough the faded drawings that bookmarked half his shelf, he searched until he found a half-colored picture with a tiny Dwarfling curled against a fair-haired Dwarf. The outline of a hayloft suggested a farm or shed, and the streaks out the window could only be a late spring shower. Bilbo smiled in pity and slipped the picture back into place.

"Why would anyone appreciate the rain, indeed?"

* * *

(Present Quest, 2941)

"Tell me what happened."

Balin scarcely had time to enter the room before Bilbo rounded on him. Frerin's words rang in his ears. _"Please don't let them kill me."_

"Tell me what happened to Thorin's brother."

The color trickled from Balin's face. "Lad, don't meddle in affairs beyond your own."

"I need you to tell me," Bilbo insisted. "Whatever happened, it's affecting all of you now. Even Frerin has noticed." He swung his head back to where the lad was still asleep by the fire. "What happened to the other Frerin?"

"Who told you of him?" Balin asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Frerin… knows his family tree," Bilbo lied. "He asked about his other uncle."

Balin drew in a shaky breath. "Frerin son of Thrain is dead. He was lost in Azanulbizar – one of the "honorable burned."'

"Then why do I feel that he's haunting us even now?" Bilbo said irritably. "All of you – Thorin, Dwalin – even Bifur – you all know something and you're not telling me."

Balin looked pained. "Death did Thorin's brother no small kindness. It was a mercy that he was cut off from that Ogre."

"Ogre?" Bilbo said. "You mean Azog?"

"Aye. Do not bring it to remembrance, Bilbo."

"Now you see, I think there are a lot of things you Dwarves are leaving 'unspoken'," Bilbo snapped. "It's like you're all afraid it's going to happen again. Well then by all means, make sure it doesn't happen! But this isn't your Frerin! He's not going to vanish like a ghost if you leave him in the cold too long."

"Bilbo, what is Frerin to you?" Balin asked softly.

Bilbo paused. "Well, he's … he's like a son to me."

"Aye." Balin nodded. "Frerin son of Thrain …. He belonged to no one. His mother died soon after Smaug burned our home, and his father may as well have disowned him. In our eyes he was little more than a merchant boy caught up in the journey."

"But he was Thorin's brother," Bilbo said uncertainly.

Balin shrugged regretfully. "It has been done in the past. An heir who cannot prove himself is no heir at all. He was allowed to travel among our company, and that in itself was a kindness."

"But none of the others are treated his way," Bilbo said, disgusted at the thought. "Not Kíli, and certainly not Frerin now."

"Kíli has already proved himself a warrior," Balin said. "As for this Frerin… well, we all learn from our mistakes."

"Thorin's brother," Bilbo breathed.

"Azog killed him, and it was not a swift death. Don't ask any more Bilbo, No one needs to remember that time."

"Frerin does," Bilbo murmured as Balin walked away. He thrust his hand into his vest pockets, fingering a bit of gold and wishing the whole world could be so easily hidden.

* * *

Breakfast was a silent affair. Beorn served them with stoic calm, as would any host with a thread of manners. Gandalf muttered that had it not been for Fíli and Kíli's exploits in the goblin caverns, even this would have been denied them. Frerin ate with his kin, a hunched shadow who studied the dirt under his nails far more than the faces around him.

"As you can see, there are some interesting members in our company," Gandalf said amiably.

Beorn grunted. "I have no interest in Dwarves, or Shire-folk. I will give you supplies for your journey, but the ponies remain with me."

"You have ponies?" Frerin spoke for the first time.

Beorn looked up indecipherably, then nodded towards the door. "In the meadows. You will find them there."

"Ah, well that's brilliant!" Gloin grumbled as Frerin bolted. "He tells the boy where to find the ponies, and what help does he offer us?"

"Beorn knows a gentle soul when he sees it," Gandalf rebuked. "You would do well to learn from him,"

"I won't be taking lessons from a boy, and a Shire-bred at that."

"Gloin, see to the packs," Thorin ordered curtly.

Grumbling, Gloin shoved back from the table and clomped to the other room. Thorin sternly met the eyes of his company.

"Does anyone else have something they wish to add?"

"Ponies!" Kíli said suddenly, bolting upright. "He's going to get himself killed!"

"Hold on," Fíli said, rolling his eyes. "He's not six anymore, Kíli – Kíli!"

He ran after his lurching brother, the two vanishing in a crescendo of slamming doors and scuffing feet. The room fell silent once more.

"Fascinating to watch, those two," Balin said serenely. "Never a quiet moment when they're around."

"Oh, dear," Bilbo muttered. "Frerin is likely to be trounced again."

"Don't interfere," Dwalin said. "They won't do anything more than fluster him."

"Who said anything about meddling?" Bilbo said innocently. "Gandalf told me that Myrtle found her way here, and I intend to give her an apple…. Ah, thank you."

He snatched an apple from Thorin's plate, ignoring the dark scowl and bristling stare. Eight casual steps towards the door and he was out before anyone could say "Lobelia Sacksville-Baggins."

* * *

Frerin never made himself easy to find. At least his quiet spots were generally close to the ground – although Bilbo had found him on the roof once after the lad thought Kæzog was chasing him. This time Frerin had chosen a nice, dangerous corner right between two of Beorn's beehives.

"Feeling a bit pestered?" Bilbo asked conversationally. He ducked under a vicious looking bee and then passed over the apple. Myrtle could always have one later.

Frerin glanced up in surprise. He took the apple and examined it contemplatively before taking a small bite. Bilbo waited.

"I never thought I'd see a sunrise again," Frerin said softly.

"Beg pardon?"

"Sunrise." Frerin nibbled the apple skin and bit carefully into the white flesh. "It was dark when he – when I ... When I died."

"You… remember that?" Bilbo said softly. "All of it?"

Frerin glanced up, his gaze torn. "I'll never forget Azog's hand around my throat."

Bilbo sat down hard. "Then everything… it's all come back."

Shaking his head, Frerin bit down harshly and then flung the apple away. "Bits and pieces. I know it's real, now. Azog is real. Thorin…. They're all real."

"Who was Thorin?" Bilbo hated it, but he had to know.

Flexing his hands, Frerin examined his fingers thoroughly. "He wasn't really kind to me, if that's what you mean. I was a bother. Pathetic, really – I couldn't even ride a pony until I was …. Well, twice as old as he was when he first held a sword. Little wonder no one thought I would amount to anything."

"Did it matter all that much?" Bilbo wondered. "You're smaller than other Dwarves. Surely they didn't expect you to …." He trailed off at Frerin's sharp glance. "Oh. They did."

"Thrain wanted more out of me." Frerin's voice dropped to a whisper as he rubbed his hands. "I thought Dwalin would be the same way. Maybe that's why I wanted to leave Ered Luin – I couldn't stand the thought of growing up and seeing him hate me."

"But surely your past-father didn't –"

"No, not in words," Frerin interrupted curtly. He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Not in words, Bilbo. I knew no one wanted me."

There was nothing to say. Absolutely nothing.

Bilbo shifted closer and squeezed Frerin's am. "Well, they want you now."

Frerin snorted and rubbed his hand over his eyes. "Can't help but wonder for how long."

"Frerin." Bilbo waited until the Dwarfling met his eyes. Those dark, lost orbs were a mimicry of the past; of a forsaken, lonely child who only wanted his family back. "Frerin, I've seen them around you. Fíli and Kíli and Dwalin – even Thorin. They would do anything for you."

Wistfulness touched Frerin's eyes and Bilbo continued, "You know, every one of the Dwarves ran to help you. Even Gandalf was there. They won't throw you out. They would give their lives for you."

"Would they?" Frerin whispered, his lips twitching in faint hope. "I know my brothers would – they always look after me." Trailing a finger in the dust, he murmured, "But the old ways don't change, Bilbo. Once we reach the mountain it's going to be like it was before. I know it."

"Well, you're wrong," Bilbo said certainly. "I've watched every member of this company, and and they do look out for you. Every one of them. Not even a mountain of gold will change that."

"Maybe," Frerin said noncommittally. He took a breath and hesitated. "Do you think… if it doesn't end well… can I come back and live with you again?"

"Well, I certainly hope you feel welcome in Bag End whether it ends badly or not!" Bilbo flustered. "After all, I'd be nowhere without my Dwobbit."

Frerin laughed. He sighed nostalgically. "I miss Red. And Amadnamad. And Marí."

"Who?"

Frerin rolled his eyes. "Marí. The lass Red's been hunting for the past twenty years who won't give him so much as a kiss."

"Oh. Well, she is a Hobbit."

"And I'm a Dwobbit, and he's a Whatever." Chuckling, Frerin slung his braids over his shoulder and sighed. "We leave tomorrow, I guess. I liked this place. It's quiet."

"Rather like Bag End." Bilbo agreed.

Frerin smiled faintly. "Like home."

Bilbo looked down at the dew-stricken grass, so soft and cushioning under his weary feet. It was so like the meadows of the Shire that he thought he might look back to the house and see his own hole. Frerin needed that same confidence. "Frerin, you know that you're welcome to stay in Bag End if you like... But your family isn't going to endanger you." He could not bring himself to say "kill". Such a frightful thought did not belong in any lad's mind."

Frerin glanced up sharply and accidentally shredded the blade of grass he had been fingering. "I'm not worried about Fíli and Kíli."

"No," Bilbo said softly. "It goes deeper than that, doesn't it?"

Sucking in a breath, Frerin jabbed his nail through the remaining green strands. "Bilbo, I wasn't lucid last night. You know I jabber when I'm drugged."

"Frerin, no one can fake a deep fear. You said you felt like you had 'just awakened.' What changed?"

Frerin shuddered. "Nothing. I just know what my dreams are now. I don't want the Orcs to find me again. Dying a second time would be ... unfair."

Well, that was pragmatically simple, and all the more complicated. Bilbo wished he knew what was really haunting the lad.

"You won't die a second time," he said confidently. "I won't allow it. Why, even Gandalf isn't so boorish as to leave you to the Orcs."

At least, Bilbo certainly hoped that was true.

* * *

"He is not like other Dwarves."

Bilbo stopped in the hall as he heard Beorn's deep rumble. He put down his knapsack, leaning against the doorway to hear better.

"He is a child born of the Fates," Gandalf responded. "You should recognize it."

"The light of Durin shines strongly where darkness corrupts," Beorn said. "They will crush him."

"Not this time. He is not alone."

"Dwarves see nothing but their own greed. No Halfling can save him from the lust for gold."

"Bilbo brings reasoning and good sense to Thrain's madness. Thorin will not fall prey to the Dragon Sickness so easily."

"And if you are wrong?" Beorn challenged. "If they destroy the twice-born heir? You challenge the Fates, Gandalf, and you will only find death."

"If Azog is to be defeated, then they will need an heir who has challenged him before. Thorin cannot fight alone. He needs his brother."

"The same brother he killed in Azanulbizar." Beorn scoffed. "I know the stories, Gandalf. The lad was broken under Azog's hand, while Thorin Oakenshield did nothing."

"The past can be corrected," Gandalf murmured. "He will not make the same mistake."

"I would not trust the boy under the Dwarves' care. Their greed overpowers their compassion. He will be dead before spring."

"He will not die," Gandalf said adamantly. "If I have to send him home with Bilbo, he will live to see his forty-ninth winter."

The rest of the conversation was too soft for Bilbo to hear. Clutching his heart, he braced himself against the wall. "Oh, Frerin!"

Beorn was right; he could not trust Frerin's safety entirely to the Dwarves. Whatever happened next, Bilbo would hold himself entirely responsible.

"We'll get you home," he whispered. "I promise, you will see Bag End again."

* * *

Favorite = Beorn gives you a pet mouse. Review = Thorin offers you a pet burglar. (No returns, please)


	27. Before His Eyes the Music Dies

_Fíli often sang when Frerin was restless. The smooth, soft melody lulled Kíli as well, and he wished he would hear his brother more often. It was only during the late hours, when Mum and Dwalin were asleep and Fíli thought no one could hear, that he comforted his youngest brother in the best way he knew._

_It was not mountains or jewels that Fíli sang of, nor pines and sparrows like in Mum's lullabies. Fíli's voice was an ever rolling cadence of the stone they were born of; of the solidity and steadfastness that outlived loyalty and inspired strength. When Fíli sang, Kíli would trail his hand along the hard floor and imagine that he was stone himself, synchronizing with his brother's words. _

_When the morning rose and the sun beckoned, __Kíli__ was the wind shivering the trees; free and airborne without a care. But when night fell and his brother's voice beckoned, he was unbreakable and ancient as Ered Luin. Fire could not touch him, nor the wind bend him to its call. He was stone._

_At such times, Kíli understood why his people longed for the Lonely Mountain. The tales of carved halls pulled him into a trance until he could feel the strong columns beneath his fingers. He envisioned himself prince of the mountain instead of a grungy village of Men. The stone sang to him and he answered._

_When Thorin asked for Fíli to accompany him on the quest, Kíli would not be left behind. Dís begged him to stay, then ranted and accused him and shamed him with reminders of Frerin, and finally cried when she realized she could not hold him back. He hugged her uncomfortably, until she pushed him away and told him to follow his uncle. He left her alone, empty and heartsick, and guilt gnawed at him until he could no longer sleep._

_But the mountain called, and he could not ignore its melody._

* * *

(TA 2914, 27 years before the Quest. Frerin is 15)

"It's a troll's ear, that's what. Look, it's got a bird's nest in it!"

Frerin looked doubtfully at the stone dish. "Trolls?"

"Yup. Darn things only freeze at sunset. Or is it sunrise? Maybe the wizard said afternoon." Red eagerly brandished the ear at Bilbo. "What do you think?"

"Where would you even find a troll?" Bilbo shuddered. Beastly things must be ten feet tall, for an ear that size. "Surely there are none about the Shire."

"West of Laketown," Red said. "We circle around the ugly, enchanted forest every two years, and you'd be amazed at what we find. Orc scimitars, old Elvish bows, bone armor…."

"Troll ears," Bilbo added, hastily shutting the Dwarf up. "Quite fascinating."

"Where… forest is?" Frerin asked carefully. His Westron was improving fast, just like Maér had predicted, but the grammar had yet to catch up.

"Just beyond Laketown's borders. I should take you there someday. The ale in Laketown rivals that of Bree. Course, you can't outmatch the Green Dragon."

"He's too young," Bilbo said quickly.

Red rolled his eyes. "I _know_. I said someday, not immediately after tea. Hey, did you hear that Maér busted some Dwarf's nose just because he pinched her waist? That woman's awesome! And then Kæzog threatened him and we haven't seen him around since."

Frerin frowned worriedly and slipped behind Bilbo.

"Relax," Red drawled. "He's not going to eat you. He says Dwarves taste like old socks, anyways."

"How would he know that?" Bilbo asked, mildly alarmed. "Does he … eat… other things?"

A shadow fell across him and Bilbo gulped. Frerin gasped and swiveled to the Hobbit's other side, clutching his waist. Kæzog looked down at them and scowled.

"That is a vicious stereotype. I eat potatoes, you know."

"And other things," Red mumbled under his breath.

"You. Shut up." Kæzog narrowed his eyes at the Dwarf. "It's called taters, mutton, pork and ale."

"You won't touch rabbits or horses," Red pointed out.

"Horses are edible when Laûrence sets them on fire. Rabbits are repulsive."

"Good." Red gathered up Frerin and hugged the Dwarfling tight. "Then you'll stay away from my bunny."

Kæzog curled his nose. "I don't eat runts."

"For once can we have a civilized conversation?" Bilbo pleaded. "We're having fine weather, the sun is merry and your trading went well, I assume."

"Beastly Hobbits," Kæzog muttered, stalking away.

"Hey, we're not done with this conversation yet!" Red yelled. "I know what you are!" He kicked the dirt and grumbled, "Freakish, tree-sized mutant. Thinks he owns the world…."

Bilbo calmly detangled Frerin and covered the fauntling's ears. "And to think you would learn better manners from _Lobelia!_"

"Confiscating, two-faced bungler with the head of a troll…."

"Garden work it is," Bilbo determined, leading Frerin away from the unwholesome tirade. Perhaps some time spent among the marigolds would soothe the unsavory words from his mind.

"May you drown in a toilet and your head be sauteed in…."

"Red, go read a book or something!"

* * *

(Present Quest, TA 2941)

Walking away from Beorn's home – and Myrtle – was difficult for Bilbo. He could see Frerin unwillingly dragging himself away. What had become a semblance of tranquility soon vanished as the land sloped into ever darkening forest.

The great bear followed them at a distance, rumbling low in his throat as wargs howled. When Bilbo questioned its presence, Gandalf remained aloof.

"Beorn may not trust Dwarves, but he will not hand anyone over to the Orcs. Say nothing, and be glad for his protection."

"Will he follow us into Mirkwood, then?"

Gandalf frowned sharply. "Beorn has no need for gold – and neither do wizards, for that matter. I will meet you at the mountain in due time. Try to mind Elladan's advice, and avoid straying from the path."

He left them at Mirkwood's border, in the shades of mist and enchantment. Bilbo had one last glimpse of Beorn's shadow before the fog cut off his view.

"Stay close," Thorin warned, moving to the head of the group.

"Ah, Thorin, perhaps I had better lead," Balin said placidly.

"I will not lose the path."

"He can't even find his way out of Bree," Kíli whispered. "Fíli, we're doomed."

"Shut up and get in line," Fíli shot back.

"Watch yourself," Dwalin said, guiding Frerin in front of him. He glanced back at Bilbo. "Don't get lost."

"Not sure I'm the one to be worried about," Bilbo muttered.

The trees stretched before them in a nauseating haze of murky green. There were no flowers; no threads of pleasantry that broke the brown monotony. There were spider webs and giant beetles the size of Bilbo's hand, and black squirrels that screeched like crows, but no good things to cheer a Hobbit's soul.

"Don't touch the water," Balin warned as they passed a stream that trickled brackish and foul. "Nothing escapes the forest's enchantment."

The nights were cold and bitter, and filled with strange hoots and growls. The days were equally dismal, as no light passed through the forest. They wandered through acres of grey.

Frerin's nightmares grew worse, and often he screamed before Bilbo could wake him. Balin watched with horrified eyes and Fíli and Kíli grew quiet.

Winter was drawing near.

"It's as if there's no life left," Frerin murmured, looking into the silent trees. "I heard tales of Ents once. Maybe all trees are oppressive towards outsiders."

The Company was gathered around a meagre fire, with rations that grew slimmer by the day. Bilbo could no longer tell if it was evening or morning. He only knew that they were all leaner and more agitated. Kíli's cheekbones jutted and Fíli looked as haggard as Thorin. The two princes were by far the better off of the Company. The elders rarely spoke and Ori had no energy in his hands. Frerin was a scarecrow huddled in Dwalin's cloak.

"We're still on the path," Balin encouraged. "The forest will end in time."

They crossed a blackened river, and it was Kíli who nearly tumbled in and drowned. His foot struck the water and he spent the better of two days hobbling on his injured leg, leaning on Fíli while his good leg dragged in a numbed state. Thorin guarded them ruthlessly after that, and he scolded Frerin for so much as catching a raindrop off a leaf.

"Now look here, Thorin –!" Bilbo began.

"If you want a son of your own, then find yourself a Hobbit lass in your own Bag End!" Thorin pushed Bilbo aside and Balin followed silently, and the argument would not be continued. Bilbo's step became a little angrier and his heart a little more wretched, and thus the forest poisoned them one by one.

"We should have reached the end by now!" Kíli snapped one day, flinging his pack to the ground. "How do we know we're still on the path?"

"Do not question your elders, Kíli," Thorin growled. His face was gaunt and his eyes shadowed with hunger. He nodded towards Kíli's pack. "Get up. We don't camp here."

"I'm tired!" Kíli said stubbornly. "Frerin is, too. Look at everyone, Thorin. You drive us on day after day and what do we find? Nothing more than what we've seen for the past weeks! We're going around in circles."

Thorin hauled Kíli roughly to his feet and flung the younger's pack at him, nearly sending him tumbling with the force. "I gave you an order. Go home to your mother if you can't handle a day's march! Now follow your brother, and don't let me hear any more of your complaints."

And so it was that Bilbo caught his first glimpse of the Thorin before Azanulbizar. Kíli followed silently behind Fíli for the rest of the day, and the day after that, and the day following. The brightness of the company was quenched and they snapped at one another all the more, bitterly complaining about the food and cold until Thorin was barking at each of them to hold their tongues.

"It could be worse," whispered Fíli, the only one to keep his senses. "We could be starving, or maimed. Frerin's hand is healing and Kíli can still walk. It could be worse."

Bilbo tried to believe him, but it was hard to be optimistic when Frerin buckled into a frightened hare shying from wolves, and Thorin's eyes hardened with stoic determination. Most days (nights? Bilbo could no longer tell) were spent bustling between the Dwarves, encouraging Frerin or calming a miffed Nori, comforting Ori and staying clear of Bifur (who, surprisingly, seemed to be Fíli's closest companion and the only other sane Dwarf). It was almost a relief when Bilbo woke one dark, clammy morning and realized the forest was uncannily still. There was no shouting or shoving, or arguments between Kíli and Thorin.

It was quiet.

Gingerly Bilbo stretched, and then froze when his hands would not leave his sides. His fingers brushed rotted wood. Something crawly slithered down his neck. Eeping his surprise, the Hobbit wriggled frantically to escape. A heavy sleeper he was, but falling back into a tree was ridiculous!

Pain spiked his neck and Bilbo gasped, nausea filling him. He rocked forward once more and tumbled into grey light. Sucking in stale air, he rubbed the swelling at the back of his neck. _Blasted centipedes! _He hoped they weren't poisonous. But how had he found himself in a tree….?

Cloth and cold flesh shifted under his other hand. Crying out, Bilbo scrambled away from the corpse. _No!_

"No, no, no, no, no!" Bilbo gasped, rushing back to Frerin. He pushed the limp, faded bronze hair aside and pressed his fingers to the Dwarf's neck. There was a swollen lump on the back of Frerin's neck, jolting under the faintest pulse. "Frerin, what happened? Where are the others? Please, wake up!"

He searched his tired, achy mind for the faintest memory. Last he remembered they had been sitting in the camp, choking down stale honey cakes while Oin and Gloin bickered. Their packs still littered the clearing, some torn to shreds with their contents strewn about. Thick webbing hung from the trees.

"What happened?" Bilbo breathed.

* * *

(Frerin's POV)

_He usually did a good job staying out of everyone's way. It was a coward's tactic, but it was the best method of survival. Kíli did enough yelling for all of them, and Frerin was content to be forgotten._

_He knew he was being pathetic. Thorin scowled at him more often now and Oin neglected to check his wounds, but he didn't know how to stop. He wasn't sure he wanted to. It was so much easier to disappear when the conflict started, and to pretend that none of this was real._

"_Frerin." That was all Fíli ever had to say, with a light smile and a squeeze to his hand, and Frerin knew he was still important to someone. _

_Were it not for Bilbo and Fíli, Frerin feared he would have vanished into the shadows completely. But they held him strong, and he fought his fears for their sake. The forest swallowed light and Azog swallowed Frerin, and the dreams left his mouth dry and his hands aching, but still he forced one foot after the other._

_Nights were lonely and bitter, even with Bilbo close by. Frerin often lay awake wondering how much time he had left, and if one day even Dwalin would tire of him and ignore him entirely. Doubt, anxiety and haunted memories assailed him until he stopped talking, for fear that he would begin shouting next. He dreaded whatever vicious thoughts would burst out of his mouth if he rallied against Thorin._

_It was while Frerin was withdrawn and silent, blocking out the sound of Gloin exemplifying his son while raging against Oin's ruthlessness, that he heard the soft 'snick' of claws sifting through mulch. Bilbo rose to speak and suddenly the Hobbit stopped, his eyes freezing in a deathlike trance before he toppled face-first onto the ground. _

_Within seconds the camp erupted. Screeching, bloated forms skittered from the trees, and swords flashed in the firelight. Dwalin shouted Frerin's name and Frerin ignored it, dropping beneath his father's axe to reach the one person who was defenseless. He wrapped his arms around Bilbo, ducking from a spider's gaping mouth, and shuddered as Kíli hacked the beast to death. _

_Duck, run, dodge, scramble… the forest was a blur of fire and swords. A squat, ragged cave yawned before Frerin in the form of a hollow tree. Exhilarated, he lunged towards it. There was a cry from Kíli and suddenly the prince fell, clutching his leg as spider fangs buried deep. Terror flooded Frerin. Greater than the urge to survive, it goaded him to his feet as he grabbed his brother's sword and clumsily lifted it. Kíli's eyes rolled back and the spider jumped forward, enticed by more lively prey. The sword was too heavy and it dragged at Frerin's balance. He tumbled back and braced the weapon in both hands, waving it at the spider's eyes. It skirted the blade almost tauntingly and lunged towards Frerin's exposed neck._

_Bifur's scythe pressed through the spider's eyes and green fluid gushed. The spider gurgled and curled in with its legs surrounding Kíli. Torn between the two, Frerin left his brother in Bifur's care while he scrambled to reach Bilbo. No one would defend the Hobbit. No one would remember him. Shire-folk didn't earn tombs of stone. For all the more reason Frerin dove to protect Bilbo, shielding him with his body as a knifing claw struck down. _

_Pain blazed in his neck and blood dripped ticklishly before the nerves turned to ice. Crying out, he crawled on, dragging Bilbo behind him. He could hear his father's bellows as Dwalin finished off the monster. The sounds hazed and the firelight dipped into blackness. Thrusting Bilbo into the hollowed tree, Frerin wrapped himself around his Hobbit and waited for darkness to finish him._

_His only happy thought was that perhaps he wouldn't have to die painfully after all._

* * *

Favorite = Dori lets you cry on his shoulder while Ori knits you a comfort blanket. Review = Nori helps you plot revenge against the object that tripped you and upset you in the first place.


	28. Depths of a Night That's About to Begin

**Note**: Frerin using a bow is a fan-made myth, as is the talk about him being a prankster, best buddies with Thorin, having either blond or dark hair (and only one of those two choices), etc.

* * *

"_Is it sweet?"_

"_Intolerably so."_

"_Spiked with mint?"_

"_Enough to kill a dragon."_

"_Can it really kill dragons?"_

"_Shut up and get your brother, Kíli."_

_Kíli scampered off and Fíli adjusted Thorin's hand so that he was not crushing __Dís' __teacup. "Now hold it steadily, or it will slop all over."_

"_Who drinks out of these?" Thorin grumbled. Useless bits of glass; he never understood why Dís took such pride in them._

"_Frerin does, and if you want to help with the nightmares, you'll have to learn how to make it properly. Is it cool?"_

_Thorin blew cautiously on the tea to be sure. Kíli ran from the other room, his seven-year-old brother bouncing on his hip, and thrust the bairn at Thorin. _

"_There. Hold him gently, Thorin! Fíli says you're supposed to do it like this…." He adjusted Frerin's leg, frowned thoughtfully, and wound the bairn's arm around Thorin's neck. "Or is it like this…."_

"_Oh, just bugger off already," Fíli said, shooing his brother away. Frerin watched the proceedings uncertainly._

"_Now give it a sip and then let him try it."_

_Thorin scowled in distaste. "I will not drink such abominable –"_

"_Uncle!" the boys chorused._

_Sighing, Thorin sacrificed his sensible palate and took a gulp of the sticky, sweet tea. Frerin watched him with wide eyes, then grabbed the offered cup. The syrupy formula was quickly guzzled and he slumped woozily against Thorin._

_Kíli cheered. "You see? It's the best way to get him to sleep!"_

"_Except when it doesn't work," Fíli muttered. Kíli elbowed him. _

_Frerin hiccupped and smiled sleepily. "Snowin, Snowin…."_

"_Guess what, Frerin?" Kíli said, extracting him from Thorin's arms. "Bedtime."_

"_Wait." _

_Kíli paused and Thorin smiled, retrieving his youngest nephew. "I'll take care of him."_

"_Okay." Kíli shrugged and stepped aside. Thorin knew he and his brother were congratulating one another behind his back._

"_Rule one of 'How to Make the Perfect Uncle,'" Fíli whispered, "Never let him suspect an attack."_

"_Fíli, he'll hear you!"_

_Chuckling, Thorin shut the door to Frerin's room and tucked the youngster in bed. Frerin snuggled up to his ragged cat (or dog, or bear, or whatever it was that Dís had stitched) and yawned widely before squeezing his eyes shut. _

_Spring was here and brought flowers to a toddler's gloom, and all was right with Frerin's world. Thorin smoothed back the bronze locks and wondered how to make it bright all the time._

"_What do you hide from us, little one?"_

* * *

(TA 2927, 14 years before the Quest. Frerin is 28)

'_My sister mastered a bow by the time she was fourteen. Not-mother was supposedly a skilled archer before she bore me, so I hear – heard – whatever the dream translates. Anyways, the words are not kind and I will not remember them._

'_I do remember Dissy's hands around mine, trying to focus my aim on a wagon slat. I shot badly and Balin couldn't sit down for weeks. It was rather funny, though we dared not laugh until when we were safely hidden. _

'_Bows are flimsy bits of wood and sinew - far less reliable than a sword. They are women's weapons, so not-father says, even though he has his own regiment of archers. No matter; I'd rather leave archery to Dissy. Thorin teaches her to hold an axe while I graduate to a long knife. It's easier to grip than a sword, and not nearly as heavy. Balin looks aggrieved at my progress. I try to show him that I'm trying._

'_Two knives at once is my best work, and I think I can be proud of my efforts. They are twin serpents sweeping around me; wings of graceful, lethal perfection. I even slip past Thorin's guard once or twice, before his heavy blade pummels me. Dissy helps me practice and we make a fine team._

'_In the end it wasn't enough. Nothing was ever enough. I was a pestering fly and when I sickened, they left me with the healers' wagons. Thorin gave me one more chance. I must have done badly, because he watched me fall apart and walked away._

'_Or was that where my dreams warped with my fever? Bilbo said I was delirious for three days. Note to self: Brandywine at high flooding stage is very bad. He's going to force more tea down my throat, which I hate because it's blackberry and we're out of peppermint. The whole Shire is a glop of mud, however, and he can't go to town for supplies. Even Amadnamad won't dare the paths, and I've seen her tramp up to Bag End with muddy feet and tangled skirts many times before._

'_I hate being sick. My head aches and my throat feels like someone wrapped a bolas around it. I shouldn't know what a bolas is. This is odd. I think the clover honey is warping my brain.'_

"Are you reading about that ghastly cold I had?" Frerin asked, peering over Bilbo's shoulder. "That was last year; I can't even remember what I said."

"Oh, you were lucid, all right," Bilbo said, marking his place. "You gave me a thirty minute lecture on why peppermint tea was preferable to fireweed honey, and you repeated yourself at least five times."

Frerin frowned sharply. "I would remember that."

"Mm-hm." Pertly Bilbo snapped the diary shut and returned it to its place.

"Fireweed honey is a bit tangy, you know," Frerin mused. "I like blackberry honey better." At Bilbo's deadpan look he added, "Well, I hate the tea, but bees make it taste better. And Lobelia makes a scrumptious blackberry frosting."

"You…." Bilbo waved his hand, failing to contrive a proper answer. "You … just never cease to surprise me."

"You're a Took," Frerin said dully. "You need it."

"Off to the woodpile with you, you little scamp." Bilbo shooed the tween out the door. "If you wanted tea, you might as well have boiled the water beforehand."

"Can we at least have boysenberry this time?"

Bilbo chuckled and shut the door. "Frerin, Frerin. Never change."

* * *

(Present Quest, TA 2941)

Bilbo tucked Frerin gently into the tree, pressing his hand to the clammy skin to ensure he was still breathing before covering him with mulch and debris. The tree was marked with a ragged slash so that he could find it again later. Slipping on the magic ring, Bilbo set into the forest alone.

_What have you gotten yourself into, Bilbo Baggins?_

Life was easier when peppermint tea was the worst surprise of the day, and Red's unruly hair was the most undesirable sight. Now Bilbo hunted spiders and missing Dwarves, and wondered how many were still alive.

And how many might die soon after he found them.

How potent was spider poison? Did it leave the poor creatures breathing, like the butterfly little Frerin had rescued, or did it juice out their insides like a liquefied caterpillar? Would their minds hold any reason or had it crisped them like smoke in a dry log?

"One matter at a time, Bilbo," the Hobbit whispered to himself. "Just find them first."

He stumbled on Bombur quite by accident. It seemed the Dwarf was too heavy to be carried into the trees, and had been left to suffer alone beneath the lowest boughs. Whispering spiders rattled above. Warily Bilbo looked around, silently counting off one cocoon after another. There were eleven in the trees.

_Where is the last Dwarf?_

One of the spiders reached for a hanging cocoon, and Bilbo had no time for questions. He grabbed a rock and smacked the horrid creature between the eyes. With a screech and a curse, the spider curled into itself and tumbled from its perch.

"Attercop!" Bilbo yelled, tossing a rock into the far bushes. "Attercop, Lazy Lob!"

"Who's calling us Attercop!" one spider seethed. "Get it! Eat it!"

"Freakish pink Orcish pansies!" He was drawing from Red's dictionary, now. One more insane thing to add to the list. "Flat-footed, deranged mutton-heads!"

"Who is the mutton-head!" the spiders hissed. "Where are you?"

Bilbo tossed a rock further, waiting for the clacking of claws to follow its descent. Quickly he filled his pockets with pebbles before scrambling up the nearest tree. He sliced through the first cocoon, relieved when Ori tumbled free. The scarf-clad writer whimpered and clutched his head, too ill to recognize his liberty.

One prisoner after the other was cut loose. Balin, Oin and Dori were the sickest, and Bilbo feared they would soon cease to breathe. But the fresher air and wane light did them good, and soon enough they were as aware and mobile as Bofur, Gloin and Nori. Fíli mumbled inarticulately about finding Kíli, and would not be calmed. Dwalin shook off the poison quickly. He tended to his brother first, bullied Bilbo for information, and then tramped away like a drunkard to retrieve his son. Thorin in contrast was as grumpy as a hibernating bear. Half-lucid as he was, he would not rest until Bilbo assured him that Frerin had been alive when he last saw him, and Fíli was breathing strongly.

But the thirteenth member of their company was not to be found.

"Get yourselves out of here," Bilbo warned. "Someone needs to round back for Dwalin and Frerin. I'll distract the spiders for you."

"I won't leave until I find my brother," Fíli swore. A crazed light shone in his eyes and he shrugged off Thorin's hand, swaying alarmingly.

"Oin, Gloin; see to Frerin. Fíli and I will find Kíli. The rest of you, hold back any spiders that get past Bilbo." Thorin nodded to Bilbo, choosing to trust his judgment. "Retreat to the others if you are overwhelmed."

"I'll be fine," Bilbo assured. He waited until he was safely behind a tree before slipping on the ring. Immediately the trees blended into grey and black, and the hissing of spiders' voices grew sharper. Shrugging off the terrible feeling that he was seen despite his invisibility, Bilbo ran.

He flung pebbles and shouted names, flinging the spiders into fits of rage. They crashed into one another, searching for their hated fiend. One spider even tangled itself in its own web, so delirious was its frustration.

Abruptly webbing caught Bilbo's feet and he tumbled, flinging out his hands to break his fall. Pain shot up his wrist while his sword slid beneath a crouching spider. Scrabbling back, Bilbo flapped the webbing from his toes.

He froze, covering his mouth in horror.

Kíli lay half-entangled, his eyes dazed slits, a trail of drool sliding past his lax jaw. The spider was hunched over his crippled form, gustily slurping from the vein under his collarbone.

Shouting desperatey, Bilbo lunged beneath the bulky monster and thrust his sword into the joint between the head and body. With a slithering squeak and a crack the spider curled into itself, head and fangs slowly detaching.

Bilbo crawled between the legs and scrambled to Kíli. There were no signs of breath until he held his sword close. He gasped, nearly sobbing when a faint mist clouded the Elvish steel. But Kíli's pulse was weak and erratic, his eyes listless as though death had already taken him away.

"No, this won't do at all," Bilbo whispered, patting the Dwarf's cheek. "You must stay awake, do you hear? Your brother is looking for you and he will take it harshly if he loses you."

Searching the forest frantically, Bilbo removed the ring and shouted for Thorin. He bent over Kíli again and shook him gently.

"I know it must hurt terribly, but you musn't sleep. Fíli and Thorin will be here soon, and Oin will know what to do. Come now, Kíli…." He bit his knuckles in terror. "Just a few more minutes. Oin will put everything to rights."

"Bilbo?"

"Here!" Bilbo shouted, never more relieved to hear Thorin's voice. "He's here, Thorin!"

"Kíli!" Fíli was upon them in an instant, pulling Kíli's head into his lap and brushing the matted hair away. "Bilbo, what happened? He's alive, isn't he?"

"We need Oin now," Bilbo said. Thorin nodded briskly and raced in the opposite direction.

"Kíli, look at me!" Fíli massaged his brother's wrist, oblivious to Bilbo's presence. "Come on, Kee. Mum always said you could charm death with those big brown eyes. Let me see them. Kíli. _Kíli!_"

Bilbo felt like an intruder on the intimate scene. He looked down at his sword, listening to Fíli implore his brother in broken, frightened tones. Kíli did not move – not when Oin came, not when Fíli lifted him and fought Thorin for the right to carry his brother. Listening to the desperation in Fíli's voice, Bilbo wondered if they might lose them both.

For if Kíli died, a part of Fíli's soul would surely die with him.

* * *

**Ah, a** melancholy turn! Yes, the muses and I missed having our Fíli and Kíli moments, and decided to treat ourselves to a spider bout. Can't give all the fun to Frerin and Bilbo, after all. ;)

Favorite = Offer Fíli a dose of spider tonic for his headache. Review = Offer Kíli hot cocoa, poofy pillows and happiness until next chapter.


	29. The Evening Sighs, So Close Your Eyes

**A.N. **I have seriously messed up the timelines, because by the time An Unexpected Journey rolls around, Frodo isn't supposed to be born for another 39 years. I couldn't resist some adorable itty-bitty Hobbitses, though! XD

Egad, Bilbo was 99 when he adopted Frodo. 8( That puts up a rotten mental image. All hands up for a warped timeline and adworable Uncle Bilbo!

* * *

_There were days when responsibility and discipline fell away, and Dwalin was free to behave as rudely or softly as he liked. Frerin was perched on his shoulders this morning, looking around the bustling market with wide eyes, and Dwalin did not chide himself as one sweet after another found its way into the bairn's hands._

_Raising a prince was a brutal task. Dwalin wondered often how __Dís__ held strong as each of her sons were warped into small kings. Much was expected of them, and no exceptions could be made. Either they grew into hardened warriors or they faded from memory and time. Not even Frerin could be spared – not then, not now._

_Except today._

_Today Dwalin, lowly blacksmith and warrior, took his son to market. They would feast on sweets and hard ale (or cider for Frerin), and bully the toymakers for the perfect dragon before finishing __Dís__' list and returning late in the evening. _

"_Adaba?" Frerin said, pointing to a lizard scuttling across the wall. _

"_Aye, but dragons are much larger and fiercer," Dwalin said. _

_Frerin hummed softly and laid his arms across Dwalin's head, pillowing his chin contentedly. Dwalin could imagine the dark eyes flitting across the market, taking in everything._

"_Dabah."_

"_No dragons here, laddie." He shouldn't be encouraging the bairn's unnatural admiration for the beasts. Still, it swelled his pride when Frerin ignored the horses Fíli carved and pocketed every lopsided dragon that Dwalin brought home. _

_Frerin shifted nervously and tapped Dwalin's head before pointing to the rack of wooden swords that had been sanded, oiled and displayed for richer children. "Dar?" He sounded unhappy at the prospect._

"_Not this trip." The boy had yet to pick up his own wooden dagger. Swordsmanship would be dealt with when the thin fingers were a little stronger._

_The five-year-old squealed and clapped his hands, wriggling to get more comfortable. "Dabah! Dabah!"_

_Dwalin chuckled. Aye, this was a simple, opportunistic venture for a father and his son. No warriors or silver bangles to place them among kings. It was all that he had ever wanted._

_T'was a pity that __Dís__ had to be a princess._

* * *

(TA 2939, 2 years before the Quest. Frerin is 40)

"Loop it into the frame like this… see? Then one day it will grow and look just like a corkscrew."

"What nonsense are you teaching him?" Bilbo looked on, flummoxed as Frerin guided a green birch sapling through a twisted pipe. Samwise looked on with huge eyes, brushing his fingers against the top leaves.

"I'm showing him how to make a twisty-tree!" Frerin said delightedly. "Balin showed me when I was…" He frowned in confusion. "No, that's not right. It must have been Wilbur."

He shrugged and fitted another pipe section across the top. "Give it room to grow, then add another layer. See how the pipes have hinges? When the tree is firm, you can remove them without damaging the trunk. Do you understand?"

Sam nodded enthusiastically. He peered into the pipe and waved at the tree.

"Did you invent those yourself?" Bilbo asked, studying the curlicue piping.

"Um… no… I think?" Frerin's brow creased irritably. "I'm pretty sure someone taught me, but the image doesn't match up. I'll sort it somehow."

"Perhaps one of your dreams passed it on," Bilbo suggested.

"Hm, Balin did have an odd beard in that one," Frerin agreed. "I didn't know my Ada…." He trailed off and rubbed his wrist, caught off guard by the memories. At last he murmured, "He had more hair than I remembered. It was so long ago – even if it was only a dream."

"Mm-hm. Now what is that one?" Bilbo asked, changing the subject as he pointed to another plant.

"Bleeding heart, I think Lobelia called it. Or was it weeping heart? Or heart-shaped pajamas? I get so confused with her flowers." Frerin lifted a sprig of the wilted plant and pouted. "I forgot to water it again."

"Well, it won't die so easily," Bilbo said, "Although the flowers might suffer. Where did Frodo run off to?"

Frerin casually pointed up. "I told him to wait for you."

"Unca! Can' ged dow!"

"Fro – how - Frerin, how long has he been up there?" Bilbo ranted.

"Just an hour," Frerin said, putting on his best puppy's charade of innocence. "You told me," he puffed out his chest and planted one hand on his hip, scowling theatrically. "Every Baggins needs a good dose of adventure."

"I am not that pompous, and his mother will kill me if he falls." Grumbling to himself, Bilbo skirted the tree until he found a good handhold. "Blasted Dwarves. Can't climb a tree even to save a child."

"I didn't hear that," Frerin said amiably. "Sammy, look – here's how you plant an acorn."

"Bother it all!" Bilbo swore, batting mulch and spider webbing away from his face. A branch smacked him in the mouth and he spluttered, glowering when the child giggled high above. "You think this is funny? I'll be lucky if I don't fall and break my neck."

"Unca! Can' ged down!" Frodo reached for him pitifully.

"How did you even climb that high?" Bilbo complained. "You're only four!"

Frodo giggled and clapped his hands to his mouth. He squealed when Bilbo reached his branch, and waved his arms to be carried. "Bihbo, up!"

"Yes, yes, hold tight." Grunting, Bilbo lifted the tot and let Frodo wrap his arms around his neck. "Frerin, have you been giving my nephew lessons?"

"I never climbed trees!" Frerin protested. "Here, Sammy – try breaking off the wilted flowers. It's okay, it doesn't hurt them."

"Cake!" Frodo said excitably, bouncing in Bilbo's arms.

"Yes, we will have cake at tea, and – why am I coddling you? You should be ashamed of yourself, Frodo Baggins! Climbing a tree when your mother firmly ordered me to keep you out of trouble…."

"Teehee!"

"It's the Buckland air that does you ill. Raise him in Brandy Hall? Hah! If the Shire is good enough for Lobelia, then it's certainly good enough for you!"

Frerin ran to the tree and held out his arms. As soon as Bilbo climbed low enough he plucked Frodo away and tickled him mercilessly, grinning when Frodo cackled.

"See here, are you bugging Uncle Bilbo again? The poor Hobbit likely hasn't slept in weeks, thanks to you!"

"Higher! Higher!" Frodo begged.

Chuckling, Frerin tossed him in the air and caught him lightly before swooping him down to his friend. Samwise watched with wise, anxious eyes, one finger hooked in his lip. As soon as he was grounded Frodo trotted over to the other fauntling and started babbling about his adventures.

"No trees," Bilbo said adamantly, blowing leaves out of his eyes. "Not ever again."

He glared at Frerin, who looked about innocently and retreated behind the trunk.

* * *

(Present Day, TA 2941)

Time passed in agonizing seconds. Hours later, or even days for all that Bilbo knew, and Balin was voicing the prospect of risking water from the forest. They were losing Kíli.

Frerin lay huddled against Dwalin, periodically rubbing back tears as he watched his brother fade. Thorin frantically paced to the outskirts and back, his thoughts consumed by his second nephew. Gone were the petty arguments and squabbles. Every Dwarf sat in despair, knowing they might see their young prince die.

Fíli was distressingly silent. He scarcely raised his eyes from his brother. His fingers twisted in Kíli's hair, half forming braids before he sucked in a breath and pulled them apart. Occasionally he looked to Oin, begging for an answer. When the healer failed to respond Fíli clutched his brother tighter, breathing into his hair and imploring him through an unspoken bond.

"He'll wake," Frerin whispered, his eyes forlorn like he was a Dwobbit in his tweens again. "Oin can fix him, can't he?"

"He'll do what he can," Dwalin said slowly. But there was death in his eyes, and Bilbo knew he was staving off the worst.

"Is there no one that can help us?" Bilbo said agitatedly, pacing around the fire. "This is the Elven forest, isn't it? Surely we can find –"

"I will not trust Thranduil near any of my kin," Thorin interrupted darkly.

"Thorin, this is insanity!" Bilbo exclaimed. "We have no food, no water, and no way out. Kíli is _dying._ You're losing him, and you won't waste your time asking for–"

The blow sent him reeling. Flat on his back, Bilbo raised his hand in alarm as blood trickled down his jaw. Thorin stood heaving, horrified as he looked from his knuckles to the fallen Hobbit. Before he could speak Frerin launched in front of him, thin fists striking the elder's chest as he screamed, "Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!"

"Thorin!" Balin yelled. Instantly he dragged Frerin away while Dwalin pinned Thorin's arms. The other Dwarves stood poised, ready to intervene. But the fury had vanished from Thorin's eyes and he looked on with despair as Frerin clawed at Balin's hands.

"Frerin, enough!" Dwalin shouted.

The bairn stilled, twitching agitatedly as he glared at Thorin. Dwalin released his king and Frerin spurted forward, snarling when Balin held him tight. "Don't you touch him!"

"He'll not be hurting anyone, lad!" Balin grunted when Frerin's boot caught his shin. "Thorin, stand down! You're worrying the both of them."

Dazed, Thorin backed away. Bofur quickly helped Bilbo to his feet. "You're all right, aren't you? He didn't hit you that hard."

Bilbo brushed himself off and waved away Bofur's concerns. He stared at Thorin, mouth pressed in a thin line. "You see, this is how you fix everything: you have to break it first to find out how the pieces work."

Thorin's face drained white. He looked from Frerin to Fíli, who watched them with calm, ravaged blue eyes. Abruptly he turned on his heel and stalked into the darkness.

"Leave him," Balin ordered as Dwalin moved to follow. "Let him have some time to himself."

Dwalin turned to his son instead, and abruptly Frerin snapped. He slapped away his father's hands, backing too close to the fire.

"Don't touch me!"

"Frerin!" Bilbo called in alarm.

Frerin skirted around the flames, doubt clouding his face. He retreated until he was beside his brothers, possessively guarding Kíli. Bilbo watched in wide-eyed dismay as the fury of a past lifetime birthed in his innocent Frerin.

Abruptly the dark stare broke away and Frerin centered his focus on Kíli. He would not look at anyone but Fíli or Bilbo from that moment on. Something crude had shaped in his young heart, and he was not quick to forgive.

"I'll find the Elves," he whispered desperately to Bilbo. "They can help us!"

"You're not going anywhere!" Fíli interjected.

"Then what will we do?" Frerin argued. "What will anyone do?"

"Wait here for Thorin to return," Fíli insisted. Even now, his faith in his uncle would not be shaken.

Frerin's eyes smoldered as he rose. "Thorin won't do anything. I'm going to find someone – anyone."

"Don't be a fool," Fíli warned low. "They'll kill you, Frerin! And don't you dare say you could stand death. I hear you risking yourself one last time and I'll give you such a strapping that trolls will seem amiable."

"Elves are not Orcs," Frerin said resolutely. "They won't kill me."

"You're not going anywhere."

"You can't stop me."

Even with his brother fading in his arms, Fíli looked ready to try. Bilbo stepped between them before the situation could turn violent. He took Frerin's hands, gentling him back to control.

"Frerin, _please_ think for a moment. You don't know the paths, and you can barely stand. If you are lost out there, no one will ever find you. Give us one hour to sort this through, and if Thorin hasn't returned, then I will search for the Elves with you."

His calmness soothed the angry spirit and Frerin slumped, nodding hopelessly. He sat down again, holding Kíli's hand and watching the erratic, short breaths. Bilbo turned and swallowed as he caught Dwalin's bewildered stare.

"What magic do you hold over him?" Dwalin asked hoarsely. He looked down at his giant hands and then back to his son; longing to comfort and finding only rejection.

"It's no magic," Bilbo said wearily. "He only needs to be gentled."

"You think I am harsh?" Dwalin retorted. "Everything I have done has been for my boy, and despite all of that he's clung only to you."

Bilbo breathed in deeply and let it out in a sigh. He had no answers.

The fire burned low and Thorin did not return. Spider sickness and hunger dragged on them all. Fíli had slumped over Kíli, and darkness hazed Bilbo's vision, when silent warriors entered the camp and bound them all. There was no struggle. Bilbo watched sluggishly as his hands were pulled in front of him. Frerin resigned himself to his fate and Fíli pleaded for Kíli's life, willingly surrendering himself. The cords were not wound tightly, and the prisoners were not roughly handled. As the embers dipped into starless night, Bilbo's thoughts drifted to prison and he wondered if captivity was all that bad. There would be food and water, and if these comforts were denied…

They would all die, anyways.

* * *

Favorite = Plant a garden with little Samwise. Review = Hunt for fairies, sprites and Elves with little Frodo.


	30. The Ghosts We

_He was cursing before he realized it, slamming his fist into the wall and shouting the names of the those who had died between Erebor and the Blue Mountains. Crockery was swept from the table and Dis' wildflowers crushed under his feet. He cursed Thranduil's name, his people, their comfortable lives, and all other pointy-eared traitors beside. He stumbled over a chair and kicked it aside, stomping on it for daring to trip up the king…._

… _And froze when he saw two frightened, dark eyes watching him from across the room._

"_Kíli, how long have you been here?"_

_Warily the young prince uncurled from his nap corner. Frerin was tucked into his arm, sleeping soundly despite the commotion. Thorin slumped in dismay._

"_You heard every word?"_

_Kíli's eyes shifted as he nodded. He looked over the old maps, drawn in smudged mushroom ink and the rusted stain of blood that Thrain had resorted to when he had nothing else. "Who were they, Uncle?"_

_Rage simmered anew and Thorin pushed it down. "They were our people. Only a few hundred of the thousands we lost. We were just beyond the borders of Mirkwood when winter claimed them."_

_Kíli traced the map and frowned sharply. "Isn't this Thranduil's region? Is that why you were cursing him? Wouldn't he help us?"_

"_You weren't born when the feud began between our kingdoms," Thorin said. "We begged Thranduil for help, and he stood idly while the dragon ravaged our homeland."_

_Frerin murmured and Kíli lifted him higher onto his shoulder. "Fíli says that Elves are noble and honorable. Is he wrong?"_

"_Thranduil never showed us any honor." Thorin's hands trembled with fury, and he folded the maps before they were crumbled. "His betrayal will never be forgiven."_

_Slowly Kíli nodded. The line of hatred subtly passed from one generation to the next._

* * *

(TA 2913, 28 years before the Quest. Frerin is 14)

"Effah?"

Frerin pointed to Imladris on the map and looked up at Bilbo expectantly.

"That's Rivendell, all right," Bilbo said, carefully stirring the biscuit batter while scooting the parchment back with his elbow. "Mind you don't dip that in the flour."

"Effah," Frerin said wonderously. He pressed his nose against the map as though he might be magically transported to the land of harps and thundering falls. "Go Bilbo?"

"Me, go to Rivendell? Well, I reckon I will someday. It's a dreadfully long journey, though."

Frerin nodded decisively. "Tak Fren."

"It is 'Take Frerin,' or 'Take me' for better wording."

"Tak mah." Frerin sighed laboriously, disinterested in the lesson. "Bilbo?"

"Hm?" Best not to stir the biscuits too long. He rolled them out carefully, saving a smidgen of each for a lump-sized pat, just like his mother used to do.

"_One bitty crumpet for the deer and doves, my love. If you can eat, so should they."_

"What do you say we invite Bell over for tea tomorrow?" Bilbo proposed. "You remember Bell, don't you? She's Hamfast's little sweetheart."

To his surprise, Frerin flushed and pulled his collar up to hide his flaming cheeks. Bilbo laughed.

"Why, you admire her, don't you? Well, there's no harm to be found in that. Although I expect you will still be playmates for another ten years, at least."

Frerin tapped on Imladris, quickly changing the subject. "Elfah."

"Come now, no harm in playing matchmaker. Goodness, I sound like an old gaffer already! Let me see the map." Bilbo perused the old writing and then pointed to a large spread of trees. "Elves here, too. See that? Mirkwood." He frowned. "Sounds like an illness. I wonder if the forest is sick."

"Bleh!" Frerin made a comical face and shoved the map away.

Bilbo chuckled "Can't stand those kinds of Elves, eh? Not to say that I like the name myself. Rivendell, at least … that's magic."

Bilbo returned to his baking and soon lost himself in the wizardry of baking soda and flour. He only thought to check on Frerin an hour later, and found the lad engrossed in his own form of enchantment. Half-finished drawings of Elves, Dwarves and dainty Hobbit lasses littered the floor, and most of Frerin's colored pencils were worn down to stubs. He held up his latest handicraft and crossed his eyes, giggling.

"That is … creative," Bilbo said dubiously, looking at the smug reindeer and the equally prissy Elf with exaggeratedly long ears. "Are those berries in his crown? He looks like a snobby raincloud. Perhaps he's Lobelia's cousin."

Frerin cackled.

* * *

He woke in a white cage, with a pounding head and a thundering heart and the taste of fermented tea in his mouth. Water rushed in the distance. Rubbing the crick in his neck, Bilbo cautiously rose.

There was light in his cell, branching from two torches that were caged in twisted wire far beyond his reach. He had been given a blanket and a risen platform to lie on, and from those merits alone Bilbo concluded that his captors had more heart than Thorin gave them credit for.

His attention was drawn to the thin wooden plate on the floor. Eagerly Bilbo dove for the food, guzzling the water and marveling at the wonders of soft bread and greens. There was no meat and it was simple fare, but to a starving Hobbit it was a feast.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Bilbo gave his surroundings a full inspection. A waterfall pulsed to his right, and the outer corridor was empty. No Dwarves or guards were in sight.

"Hello?" Bilbo called, running his hands down the white iron and feeling a bit more than claustrophobic. "Is anyone there?"

Silence met him. Shivering, Bilbo crept back to the platform and tucked the blanket around his shoulders. He waited until the torches burned low, staring at the plate and wondering if more would come, and if his friends had been given such kindness, and if his captors had possibly forgotten him.

Metal clanked and boots skidded lightly on the stone. Bilbo jumped to his feet, delighted when an Elf appeared before his cell door.

"Pardon me," Bilbo called, "But could you tell me if there were any Dwarves captured? My friends were also in the forest.

The plate was slid out from a slit in the door and replaced with fresh rations.

"Excuse me!" Bilbo said, a little more flustered. "My friends were there. One of them was terribly sick, and the other … he …." Bilbo twisted his hands around the cell bars. "He's my charge. Please, did you find either of them? A dark haired Dwarf with scarcely a beard, and a little one who could almost be confused for a child of Men?"

The cup was replaced and Bilbo spoke desperately. "Can you hear me? Will you tell me nothing?"

The torches were replenished and the Elf returned to his duties. Bilbo fell against the door, threading his hands through his curly hair.

Only a few hours in solitude, and he thought he might lose his mind.

* * *

The next time the guard appeared, Bilbo was ready. There were no weapons in the cell – not even a stray rock or tin plate – but he had the advantage. When the guard appeared with fresh food and water, Bilbo slipped into shadows that not even dragons could unveil.

The Elf stoically fulfilled his duties, then glanced into the cell. He stiffened, tilting his head as though listening Bilbo out. The Hobbit held his breath until he thought his chest might burst. Slowly the key turned and the Elf approached. Easing around him, his bare feet silent on the stone, Bilbo crept to the front of the cell. He was tempted to lock the guard inside, but he doubted that Elves believed in ghosts, and it was better to have simply vanished than for his captors to be looking for an invisible prisoner.

Sliding past the cell door, Bilbo flitted away.

Dwalin was the first to find, and by far the easiest. From several corridors down Bilbo could hear him slamming against the iron gate and spewing curses. The Elves passed by with formal, unfazed dignity. Bilbo waited until the hall was clear before pulling off the ring and pattering close.

He paused at the corner, sucking in a breath at the frenzy in Dwalin's eyes; the bruises where he'd thrown himself against the door. There was nothing he could say now that would encourage him – not before the others had been found.

Regrettably, Bilbo concealed himself once more and hurried away.

Nori, Dori, Bofur and Bombur were found in quick succession, each a far distance from one another. They were all frustrated but whole. Bilbo told the brothers of his plan, and promised Dori he would return when he learned of Ori's fate.

Fíli was next. The golden prince sat alone, his plate untouched, his eyes red and empty. Bilbo watched helplessly, wishing he could find Kíli and return him at once. He hurried away, all the more desperate to find the lost sons of Durin.

Mercifully, Kíli was in the next cell corridor. Bilbo saw the dark eyes flicker at the strike of a pebble and he had to lean against the wall, dizzy with gladness.

"Kíli!"

Lethargically the prince raised his head. His eyes widened as Bilbo appeared and he scrambled upright, nearly falling. There was a virtual nest of blankets on the floor, and a half-full cup of dark liquid. Whatever the Elves had done to the brothers, they had at least saved their lives.

"Bilbo?" Kíli said, his voice cracking as he rubbed his burning eyes. He scrambled to the door and leaned against it, panting. "Fíli?"

"Alive and well," Bilbo assured readily. He laid his hand over Kíli's and the young Dwarf rested his forehead against it, craving companionship. "I have yet to find Thorin, but I did see Dwalin earlier."

"What about Frerin?" Kíli rasped.

Swallowing, Bilbo shook his head. "No sign yet. I haven't checked all the cells."

Kíli's breathing grew rapid. "Please, Bilbo, you have to find him! I can't – we can't lose him again."

"I will," Bilbo swore. He glanced briefly around the cell. "They've looked after you well enough?"

Kíli grimaced. "They keep pouring pig swill down my throat. They won't tell me what it is."

"Probably for the poison," Bilbo guessed. He smiled, giddy with relief. "We thought we would lose you, Kíli."

The young Dwarf shook his head. "I'm fine. Find Frerin." He coughed wetly, then raised his head, striking Bilbo with a fierce, determined stare. "Hurry."

Bilbo nodded, squeezed Kíli's hand one last time, and scampered down the hall. He waited until he was safely out of the Dwarf's sight before slipping the ring on again – and none too soon, for another guard passed the corner. Slinking past, Bilbo followed the Elf to the lower halls.

In this way Balin, Gloin, Oin and Bifur were found in quick succession. Bilbo tracked the halls, forcing the twisting corridors to memory. He did not linger to speak to the Dwarves, though he did comfort Ori when he found him, and assured him that his brothers and "the little ones" were all well.

"But what about Frerin?" Ori whispered. "You haven't told me about him."

"Probably in the next cell," Bilbo guessed. "I'll find him."

But the last prisoner to be found was Thorin, who paced sluggishly as though he had not slept in days.

"Thorin!" Bilbo exclaimed, unveiling himself. "How did they capture you?"

Haggard blue eyes locked onto him and Thorin rushed to the door. "Bilbo. Where are the others? Did you find Kíli?"

"He's alive, as are the rest," Bilbo assured. "How did they find you?"

Anger smoldered in Thorin's expression. "I surrendered myself. I sought Thranduil's aid, and now look how he has responded." His brow furrowed. "How is it that you were released?"

"Another time," Bilbo said dismissively. "Fíli and Kíli are both alive, and you appear to be in good health. All that is left is for me to find a way out."

"What about Frerin?"

The ghostly look in Thorin's eyes smote Bilbo and he was pulled back to all the memories – past and present – that constituted Frerin's brother. He had seen the anger of Thorin Oakenshield, but to see his pain… Bilbo wanted to run away and never look back. His gentle heart could not handle such torment.

"I haven't seen him." Not since Frerin was yanked out of Dwalin's arms and lost in the throng of shadowed warriors.

Thorin's hand struck the cage and resolve hardened his gaze. "Find him, Bilbo; for all our sakes."

But the days crawled past, and Bilbo was no closer to finding his lost Dwobbit. He wearied himself running messages between the Dwarves and trailing the Elves for any news of a fifteenth prisoner. His vanishing was whispered of in the halls. Apparently Elves did believe in spirits, and Bilbo had earned himself a comical reputation. One auburn haired guard heard his feet scuff in the hall and dropped her tray, firing three arrows instantaneously. Bilbo grabbed for her keys, missed, and watched glumly as she swept away.

"Don't underestimate the Elves," Balin warned. "Thranduil may not be cruel, but he is insatiable. He will not be satisfied until he is promised a share of the treasure."

"I thought Elves loved beauty and life above all else." So Bilbo had heard, and had witnessed in Rivendell.

"Mirkwood Elves are a darker sort, I might be so bold as to say." Balin pondered. "Much like the Ironfists of our race. No one associates with them."

"Do you think Thranduil would honor his word, if Thorin did give him a share of the treasure?"

"He has lied to us before," Balin said grimly. "I would not trust him any more than Smaug."

"We're running out of options," Bilbo murmured.

"What of Dis' youngest?" Balin asked. "Has there been any sign?"

"No," Bilbo said, sighing. "But the outer gates are bolted and so are many of the upper corridors. I'm sure he must be here."

"Hm." Balin nodded contemplatively. "You know, he is… very much like the Frerin we knew. Not Dis' son; the other."

Bilbo leaned against the door to listen. "Tell me about him."

Balin humphed faintly, fondness mixed with sorrow. "He was small – but you gathered as much, I'm sure. Very light, quick hands. He was tutored by Gloin at the forges."

"Gloin!" Bilbo exclaimed. "That is … unexpected."

"Well, he may not be the most chivalrous of Dwarves, but he is the father of two bairns, and a faithful kinsman. You mustn't be too quick to judge this lot, Bilbo. Dwarves are rough folk compared to Hobbits, but we stick close to our own."

"Of course, I never doubted that," Bilbo assured. "It's just … _Gloin_."

"Ah, but Bifur was a fiddler before the incident." Balin smiled. "Poetic and endearing to the lasses, so I recall. We lost much over the course of war."

Bilbo immediately fell silent. "Tell me more about your Frerin."

The sadness returned. "There's not much to tell. He was a quiet lad; more engrossed in his own work than matters of court. He would not be detained by his lessons – much like Kíli, when the lad was younger. His sister was his dearest friend… I don't think he trusted anyone else."

"He was afraid?" Bilbo surmised.

Balin shrugged uncomfortably. "Thrór railed on the lads often – Frerin and Thorin both. Their father encouraged it, and Thorin thrived under the pressure. Frerin was more of a flighty rabbit. No one had reason to defend him."

"Were they … unkind?"

"Respectively, he was well treated. He was a prince, after all." Balin sighed. "Still, he was unusual from birth. He preferred his books to the treasury and golden chains to war hammers. I don't think anyone knew what to do with him."

"That does sound a bit like Frerin." Bilbo mulled.

"Not the same, Bilbo. This one shows more courage." Balin smiled lightly. "I don't think our Frerin would have taken on Thorin."

Bilbo folded his arms, confused. "Didn't they fight?"

Balin tilted his head contemplatively. "I wouldn't say they fought. Frerin had a temper, and I'm sure he resolved every time to make a better stand, but … well, they were only words."

Bilbo shook his head, mouth tight in pent fury. "And so all his resolutions to best Thorin…." He thought about countless dream excerpts where Frerin described himself as a more valiant, combative Dwarf. "… All of that was part of his imagination."

"Perhaps." Balin regarded him strangely. Slowly he advised, "If - _when_ \- you find Frerin…. Tell him Thorin is glad to know he's alive."

Uncomfortable under the Dwarf's wise stare, Bilbo nodded vaguely and retreated from the corridor. He crept along the winding paths, wondering if he could find a kitchen and if – just maybe – one of the servants would lead him to Frerin.

* * *

Favorite = Interview with one of Thranduil's minions (Legolas/Tauriel/Random Guard). Review = One whole day of using the Ring to tease, taunt, embarrass, and otherwise drive Thranduil insane.


	31. Every Door's Been Checked in Vain

"_Frerin!" Dís clapped her hands to her mouth, aghast. Instantly her demeanor turned icy. "Kíliii!"_

_Kíli peeked over the edge of the chair and managed a sickly smile. "You're home early, Mum." He gulped. "We were going to clean it up."_

"_We? Fíli!"_

"_Why did you have to sell me out, brother?" Sighing, Fíli slipped out of the closet. "It isn't as bad as it looks, Mum. We just…."_

"_It was Frerin's idea!" Kíli burst in, pointing adamantly at his brother. "All of it was Frerin's fault!"_

_The eight-year-old giggled impishly and held out his arms for Dís. "Amad!"_

_Scolding, she scooped up the ragged bairn and pulled bits of feathers out of his eyes. "What did you do to him?"_

"_He's a duck," Fíli said snarkily. "Kíli instigated a pillow fight and Frerin got in the middle."_

"_That is a total lie!" Kíli howled. "You hit me first!"_

"_You were the one that cut up Mum's towels."_

"_You made Frerin a cape out of them!"_

"_And you did get out the honey jar -"_

"_Which Frerin climbed onto the counter for while** you** were supposed to be supervising him …."_

"_Enough!" Dís shouted. The boys shrank down and Frerin sneezed. Closing her eyes, Dís instructed calmly, "Fíli, Kíli I want every scrap and feather out of this room. I want the house swept and scrubbed down. I want the hearth cleaned out, and every rug beaten until you're choking on your own laughter. If you still have any spare time left, you can muck out the stables. Relish your freedom while you have it, because Thorin is going to hear about this."_

"_But it was just a pillow fight!" Kíli protested._

"_Don't you give me any of your lip, young man!"_

"_Time of the month again," Fíli mumbled._

"_What…?" Kíli looked at him cluelessly._

"_Don't ask questions," Fíli snapped. "Get a broom!"_

_Dís sighed and looked down at her giggling youngest. "Don't pretend you're innocent."_

_He sighed languishingly and leaned his head against her shoulder. "Amad."_

"_Cuteness isn't going to sway me__." Dís looked away, strengthening herself against those deadly brown eyes. Sometimes she could almost see her brother shining through, and then she could deny him nothing._

"_Dissy?"_

_Dís sucked in a gasp, nearly dropping Frerin as the tiny voice lisped a nickname she had only allowed her brothers to call her. She gathered her composure and stroked the little one's back._

"_Oh, Thorin… the things you teach him." _

_Some memories were better left dead._

* * *

(TA 2933, 8 years before the Quest. Frerin is 34)

The first two weeks of Spring were always quiet. Soon after the crocuses bloomed white and purple, Frerin lapsed into "winter hibernation." Red said he was a cousin to the possum. Bilbo reasoned that anyone who spent winter avoiding sleep had good reason to spend the first sunny weeks ignoring the wakeful world.

He took that time to catch up on his own neglected duties. The house always needed a good scrubbing, the rooms needed to be aired, the pantry refilled, the floors mopped and the fireplace cleansed of soot. Even Frerin's room was dusted, and the Dwarfling never stirred.

"Wake up!"

Bilbo was the one rattled when Red burst through Frerin's window. The muffled 'poofing' of a pillow batting someone over the head followed.

"Wakey wakey, bunny! Up! Up! Up! Move!"

"Red!" Frerin groaned, and Bilbo could imagine him burrowing deeper under the covers.

"The sun is awake and the world is aglow! Bilbo! Where's your pantry? I'm starved!"

"I don't seem to recall adopting him," Bilbo complained to the frog kite.

Red traipsed out of the hall, mussing his hair until it stood on static, frazzled ends. "Tea. Blackberry. Lukewarm. Nothing better to wake a grumpy Frerin in the morning."

"Just don't break the cups," Bilbo muttered. He held his book closer, comparing Smaug to the scarlet monstrosity that had barreled into his home. Sometimes dragons seemed so amiable.

"Biiiilbo Baggins, reading in his armchair late one morn!" Red's singing was only rivalled by a hoarse bullfrog. Glass pinged as he juggled three teacups before setting them lavishly on the counter. "Unaware that beastly Hobbits are pounding 'er on his front door!"

"Don't you have Orcs to humiliate?" Bilbo grumbled.

"I'm bored." Red filled three steaming cups and sipped out of two when they slopped over. He smacked them all onto a tray and dug around for the sugar. "Freeeerin! Tea fore' levensis and I'll be there with a smashin' cake and a – oooh, cake! Aunt Lobelia leave this for me?"

"Aunt Lobelia?" Bilbo spluttered. "She's not your aunt – and last I heard she can't stand the sight of you."

"Shh!" Red raised a finger to his lips and grinned slyly. "Any relative of the bunny's belongs to me. Tea?"

"Thank you, I've quite lost my appetite."

Red shrugged. "Whatever. _Hey, Frerin!_"

The crockery jiggled at his shout. Bilbo calmly hid behind his book as Red tromped down the hall and kicked open Frerin's door.

"Rise and shine, oh sulky cousin of mine! It's a beautiful day and you are going to appreciate it. Hey, no pillow tagbacks!"

"Thus ends Spring Hibernation," Bilbo murmured, flipping a page. He smirked. Would that Red was always around when Frerin was at his gloomiest.

* * *

(Present Day, TA 2941)

Food and wine did a Hobbit much good, especially when his days were spent in the maze of dungeons and gloom. Fíli and Kíli alone taxed Bilbo's memory with messages and riddles to entertain one another. Their cheer was tainted from their confinement, and Kíli slowly crept into melancholy, dragging Fíli and Bilbo with him.

"There must be something we can do." Talking to a wine bottle was a bit out of line. Bilbo wondered if he'd been a little too excited at the prospect of a full larder. "There can't be magic barring every gate."

The answer came an hour later, when the crashing of barrels woke Bilbo from a wine-induced doze. He rubbed his head and looked around, curious when the Elves began arraying a selection of sturdy barrels.

"See what fine goods are sent to the people of Laketown!"

"Their flimsy 'Master' had best pay quick in gold, or else his larder shall suffer."

"Have a taste yourself, Dan. Such excellent brews should not be wasted."

Bilbo wondered if Elrond's sons were secretly raised in Mirkwood. The tipsy, carefree guards certainly resembled the brothers.

"But ho, Ro! I perceive there is an unwelcome guest in the pantry!"

Scrabbling around, Bilbo squeaked in panic as he realized the ring had slipped from his finger. He saw the gleaming band ahead, and lunged forward …

Only to fall short as a boot clapped down on the ring.

"What have we here?" the dark haired Elf drawled, folding his arms accusingly. "A furry mouse has left his hole. What shall we do with him? Lock him in the dungeons? Feed him to a dragon?"

"Have pity, brother; he would not make a mouthful."

Bilbo gawped, looking rapidly between the two Elves. "Elladan? Elrohir?"

"At your service!" the brothers crowed, mocking the Dwarven bow.

"What has brought you here, good Hobbit?" Elrohir wondered. "Gandalf said you should be long past Mirkwood's eves by now."

"Even if your guides were ill mannered enough to take on goblins," Elladan grumbled. He stepped away and Bilbo gladly scooped up the ring.

"But how did _you_ get here?" Bilbo blustered, tucking the precious gold band into his pocket.

"We are here for the ceremonies, of course!"

"And to see how long it takes Father to notice our absence."

"Or for Thranduil to realize his wine is slightly more pungent."

"As you proved for us so considerately, Master Hobbit. We were looking for a test subject."

Bilbo pressed his hands to his skull, sorely dazzled by the shifting voices. Elrohir slapped his brother's chest and they sobered at once.

"What brings you here, Master Hobbit?"

"We were captured," Bilbo said wearily. "There were spiders, and then our supplies ran short. I have found everyone but Frerin, but I have no way to smuggle us out."

"Oh, but we found your Dwarf!" Elladan exclaimed. "The small one with a fear complex? He is Thranduil's guest of honor!"

"Though he will not leave his room," Elrohir added.

"And he firmly refuses to speak, even to us."

"But his eyes tell enough – I thought he might slay us!"

"Perhaps you could gather some reason out of him."

"What an idea! You must follow us at once. Dan and I know all the secret passages in Mirkwood."

And thus, before Bilbo could even voice his own opinion, he was hustled through the corridors and up several flights he had never seen before. Elrohir ran ahead and rapped lightly on a door, before pulling a pin from his hair and inserting it into the lock. He pushed the door open and Bilbo was shoved inside, where he promptly spiraled into a furious, fleeing Dwarfling.

"Frerin!"

Their heads collided and they both tumbled, much to the amusement of the onlooking brothers. Frerin rubbed his skull dazedly, and then lunged into Bilbo's arms.

"They didn't find you!" he cried gladly.

"But ho, the Dwarf speaks!"

"What an anomaly."

"Would you give us a moment of privacy?" Bilbo demanded.

As one the twins raised a finger to their lips and tiptoed out the door, shutting it softly behind them. Frerin untangled himself and checked Bilbo's forehead, worrying over the slight bruise.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know you were –"

"I'm perfectly fine," Bilbo said hastily. "How long have you been here?"

"Two weeks," Frerin said unhappily. "They counted the days for me. Thranduil wants me to confide in him. I haven't told them anything!"

"I'm sure," Bilbo agreed. He looked around the room, disgruntled by the lavish furniture, a tray of mouth-watering food, and the soft bed. "They gave you all this?"

Frerin scowled, clearly miffed. "They seem to think I'm some sort of savior, or the key to the Lonely Mountain. Thranduil told me that everyone else has been locked away." He trailed off anxiously. "Are they, Bilbo? Tell me he was lying."

"I'm afraid not." Frerin paled and Bilbo added quickly, "But Elrond's sons are here, and I believe they have a plan."

"Thranduil didn't bring them here?" Frerin asked, perplexed. "I thought he was deceiving me, making me believe I was among friends."

"I doubt Thranduil would associate with those two," Bilbo said amusedly. "Now, you must tell me everything. What does Thranduil want with you?"

Frerin sighed gustily. "He wants me to swear my allegiance. He promised me protection, sanctuary and a long life if I remain in his kingdom. Bilbo, how many others know about Azunulbizar?" He nibbled his lip apprehensively. "Why am I the only one who can't see this great destiny I'm expected to fulfill?"

_If Thranduil has seen it, then what if Azog also knows? _Bilbo rigidly set his jaw. "We're going to get you out of here. Follow me: the cellars may not be comfortable, but you can hide there until we have a plan for escape."

"That, we already have." Elladan announced, dangling a keyring from one finger. Elrohir beamed.

They hustled Frerin out of the room, bombarding him with questions and delighting in their 'talking Dwarf.' Bilbo reached for his pocket every third step, but the secret corridors were empty of guards.

"Is it true that the plains are swarming with Orcs only because of your ridiculous uncle?"

"Father says it is your fault that we are at war – not yours personally, of course, but Longbeards in general."

"He was furious when he learned your company had left Imladris. He ranted for hours about fools and dragons and how you would all die before you reached Erebor."

"Do you know we have strived for years to obtain that perfect reaction? Not even Sister could raise those angry eyebrows, and that was when she gave her favorite ring to the itty-bitty future king."

"It belonged to our grandmother, and that should have entitled Father to a little rage."

"I think he has a soft spot for El. Maybe we should enlist him for our future pranks, Ro."

"I should not chance it, Dan. Remember when we almost lost his pony over that cliff? Mortals are so fragile."

"Ah, here we are! Cell number one. Trot everyone down to the wine cellar when you are finished, Bilbo. We will ensure the guards are properly inhibited."

Elladan grandly handed over the keys and waved before racing his brother down the stairs.

"What are those lumbering oafs doing here?" Thorin scowled.

"They are here to help us, believe it or not." Bilbo tried a few keys, muttering under his breath at the vast selection. Thorin's glower did not help matters, and Frerin was … gone.

"Where…?"

"Try the small one," Thorin said impatiently.

Sighing, Bilbo inserted the key and twisted. The bolt clicked and Thorin shoved the door open.

"Have you found the boy?"

"Yes, he was just here a minute ago." Bilbo scanned the hall doubtfully. "Oh, well – probably off looking for his brothers, then. Follow me."

Apparently Frerin had made an appearance in each corridor as he passed, and all the Dwarves were in good cheer as they congratulated Bilbo for his burglary.

"And to think we'd all be in here the rest of our lives if not for you, Bilbo!" Bofur said, thumping the Hobbit's shoulder in pride.

Dori caused them some delay, for he spent a good ten minutes examining Ori from head to toe just in case there was a hidden illness or injury. Bifur clapped his hands and methodically spelled something which apparently boiled down to 'Frerin good boy outsmart Thranduil horse-face.' Bilbo suspected a little was lost in the translation.

Kíli crowed in exuberance when they reached his cell. He was healthy and in good spirits, as though the spider bout had never occurred. He grabbed the keys from Bilbo and released Fíli personally. Scarcely was the door open before the two crashed into one another, falling back into the cell as though they were content to be imprisoned for the rest of their lives so long as they were together.

By the time the Company reached Dwalin's cell, Frerin was leaning in his father's embrace, arms threaded through the bars and eyes shuttered in comfort. Solitude had a way of banishing all doubts. It seemed as though he would forget his past-past troubles for a while longer.

"We're not out yet," Balin warned, herding them towards the stairs. "There will be plenty of time for reunions later."

Before they reached the cellar Thorin pulled Frerin aside, however, his eyes sweeping over the smaller Dwarf. "Are you all right? Did they hurt you?"

Bewildered, Frerin pulled away. "I'm fine."

"Now is not the time to lie to me."

Bristling, Frerin backed towards his father and repeated, "I said I was fine. They haven't hurt me."

"Good." Curtly Thorin nodded and led the way. The endearing moment had vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"This is not helping matters." Bilbo sighed. As often as Thorin tried to close the distance between him and his nephew, Frerin shoved him further away. The wrongs of the past were compiling in his every growing store of memories, until his eyes sparked like daggers and Bilbo had to search for the child hidden away.

"Just give him a chance," Bilbo found himself whispering. "I know there's more to it, Frerin."

"Ah-hah! There is our band of miscreant friends!"

"You!" Fíli exclaimed when he saw the twins.

"Ah, the princesses of Erebor!"

The twins bowed and spoke as one. "Welcome to the lofty cellars of Thranduil's domain!"

"Get out of the way, tree-spawn." Thorin shoved past them, only to sprawl on his face when Elladan casually stuck out his foot.

"Nay, I think we have been insulted enough for one day. We leave you to your Hobbit's defenses. See here, Bilbo, find a nice rotted barrel for this one."

"Fifteen barrels are waiting for you, and we found caps for all of them, but we can find a dingy, smelly one for this troll if you like."

"Or we can lock him up again," Elladan offered, crossing his arms.

"Thank you, the barrels will be fine," Bilbo said quickly.

"There is straw for padding, and the caulk is strong, so you need not worry about drowning. Would you like a barrel of your own, Master Hobbit?"

"Oh, dear." The thought of being stuck inside a boarded tomb was rather disheartening. "No, I think not. Someone will have to free the others."

"Ah, we did consider that." Elrohir nodded. "Dan and I will meet you at the end of the river, but we might be delayed. Thranduil's wine must be at its utmost potency for his ... alarming stage performance." The cheeky Elf's eyes glowed with mischief and he muttered to his brother, "I wonder if he sings well."

"You'll be wanting these," Elladan addressed the Dwarves as he laid out an array of swords and miscellaneous weapons. Bilbo gladly reached for Sting, and noted that some of Thorin's contempt had settled into reluctant gratitude.

As each Dwarf found their weapons, Elrohir assigned them to barrels. Fíli and Kíli would not be separated, and so Bombur was forced to take a less rounded barrel so that the brothers could squeeze in together. Thorin glowered at Elrohir until the lid was firmly pounded down around his head. Bilbo flinched, suspecting there was a little more sealant used than necessary. He hoped they could remove the caulk before Thorin starved to death.

Frerin would not cooperate.

"Can't I swim?" he wheedled, rubbing his arms as his eyes shifting between Bilbo and the yawning barrel.

"Frerin, you're not really a good swimmer," Bilbo reminded kindly. "This is just for a few hours. You like small, dark spaces, don't you?"

"Not when I can't get out." Shivering, Frerin sank against the barrel and pressed his hand against his brow. "Bilbo, I can't stay there. At least leave the lid open. I'll float downriver just fine."

"Do we have a problem?" Elladan asked, leaning over the barrel where Bofur was stored away.

"Is there another way out?" Bilbo wondered. "He's claustrophobic."

"Well, we could smuggle him through the front gates."

"But that is tricky; Thranduil's wards were difficult enough to break for the two of us."

"Of course, if you really need assistance…."

Bifur settled their problem in the simplest manner. He clambered out of his barrel, took Frerin's hand and led him back. Lifting the prince like he was a mere fauntling, he settled Frerin inside the next largest barrel and then climbed in himself. He held up his fists in affirmation.

Cautiously Bilbo raised the lid. "Will this be all right, Frerin?"

A little dazed by the turn of events, Frerin nodded. "You'll get us out?"

Bilbo smiled wanly. "When have I ever forgotten you?"

Feebly Frerin returned the smile. He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned against Bifur as darkness enclosed him. Bilbo imagined each flinch and gasp as the lid was hammered down.

"Well, that finishes it," Elladan said. "Are you sure you would rather swim?"

"We could meet you downriver tomorrow night," Elrohir offered. "It would only be a few hours difference."

"Thank you, but I think it best that I free them as soon as possible," Bilbo said.

Elladan shrugged. "Beware of seasickness. I hear it is perfectly abominable among Men."

"And watch that you do not catch cold!" Elrohir added.

"I'll be careful," Bilbo said. He crept into an open-ended barrel, dreading the upcoming fall.

That was his last concise thought before the barrels rattled through the trapdoor and he splashed into frigid water. He thought he heard Fíli and Kíli whoop in delight, and Frerin's short cry of fear.

Then he was paddling for life as his teeth clacked and his ears numbed. Was it too much to ask for a spot of hot tea and an armchair?

* * *

Favorite = Elladan plays a prank on your present/former school. Follow = Elrohir plays a prank on your present/former school. Review = Both twins prank a teacher/coworker/(or particularly cheeky student) of your choice, and record the evidence.


	32. Captured Fairy Tale

_It was not Bhruíd whom Frerin feared most. Nor was it Gloin's son, who could lift a double-headed axe with one hand. It was the smallest and least suspected source that he ran from with the highest screams._

_Never had Thorin seen such a scrawny, pasty child of Men. A trout could have been his close cousin and a toad his mother. His name was Alfrid, orphan and kitchen boy, who occasionally passed through the city with the Laketown traders._

_He was a bootlicking, conspiring brat from the start. More than one gold coin was wheedled out of a compassionate young maid, and in return the child sneered at her gullibility. A rat and an oily worm, that boy was – too repugnant to be honored with the term 'snake.'_

_One quiet day Alfrid took an interest in Frerin, and it took weeks for Thorin to understand the problem. Frerin was nearly eleven and Alfrid eight; plenty old enough for him to realize that no one meddled with the Sons of Durin. For all his bright appearance, he was a foolish boy._

_It was soon after a dreary, missed birthday that Kíli had kindly chosen to forget, that Thorin realized the middle child had lost Frerin again. One minute they had been walking through the market, Thorin scoffing at imbalanced swords and Kíli inspecting a new bow, and the next they were scrambling between stands in search of a wandering bairn._

_Frerin deserved a good scolding from his mother, was Thorin's initial thought. His second, when he heard the stifled whimper, was that the child may not have wandered off on his own accord this time._

_He pounded into the thin alley and abruptly skidded to a halt. For the moment the greasy, dark-haired Man-child was a Dwarf of sixteen years, fingers wrenching his brother's arm until it was almost in line with his neck, hand clapped over the younger's mouth to silence his screams. The curiosity in Alfrid's eyes, like it was a game and Frerin an interesting beetle, left Thorin's heart thudding and his mind screaming as memories crushed his spirit._

_With a roar he descended on Alfrid, flinging the urchin away before ensuring Frerin was breathing and relatively unharmed. Kíli rounded on the kitchen boy and dragged him back to the wagons, while Thorin busied himself with Frerin's welfare lest he unleash his anger on the worm of a Man-child. His efforts were useless. Frerin retreated with a wail, watching Thorin's hands and whimpering with dread. No kind words or promises of sweets and mother and all things that children found comfort in would soothe the tortured soul._

_In the end Frerin would not even allow Kíli to touch him, and the confused prince resorted to fetching his brother instead. A fine crowd had gathered to watch the display. Thorin's anger simmered with every hissed whisper that brought further disgrace upon his kin. As soon as Fíli arrived Thorin stepped roughly aside, eager to have Frerin settled and silent as quickly as possible._

_Home they went, without swords or bows or iron for smelting. Blond hair was apparently preferable to dark in a moment of fright; Frerin clung to Fíli's shoulder and sobbed the entire way back._

_It was not the first incident, nor the last. Alfrid never had the chance to bully Frerin again, but for two autumns after he was spotted in the town. He only smiled. The first year, Frerin shrieked uncontrollably until Dwalin carried him home._

_The second autumn, there was no one for Alfrid to sneer at._

_Thorin still wanted to wipe the smug look from the child's face._

* * *

(TA 2912, 39 years before the quest. Frerin has just turned 12)

"That's not one of our scum."

Red's livid expression reminded Bilbo why "Dwarf-Dwarves" (not "Freak-Dwarves" as Red so eloquently described himself) were a dangerous and unsavory folk. He looked from Red to the sallow-faced, sulky child and asked calmly,

"Well, then who is he?"

"I dunno." Red's eyes narrowed and he hitched his pack higher onto his shoulder. "But I'm going to find out."

He stalked to the child, hands gesturing his question as he confronted whatever matter of ill-discrepancy he had concocted. Bilbo sighed and checked his timepiece. Half past tea already. Frerin was long overdue for a nap.

At that moment the Dwarfling looked up from the whirling kite that had mesmerized him for the past half hour. He smiled and Bilbo, blinked sleepily, and chanced to look in Red's direction.

Instantly the lethargy vanished and the child screamed.

Bilbo's timepiece went flying and he lunged for Frerin's hand, dreading another run-and-hide-in-Lobelia's-house fiasco. Frerin shrieked and yanked back. He sobbed, realized he could not escape, and collapsed in a puddle of upset-Frerin.

"Goodness, I've never seen him in such a fit!" Bilbo looked helplessly at Red. "What happened?"

The boy beside Red smiled. "I guess he doesn't like me."

His sneer widened and he slowly retreated. Red snarled at the boy, one fist raised for a punch before he thought better of it. He stomped on a discarded branch instead, neatly tripping up the other youngster. While the boy spluttered angrily, Red stuck out his tongue and ran to assist Bilbo.

"Hey! What's going on, Bunny?"

Frerin shook his head, babbling fretfully as he hid his face in Bilbo's shirt.

"Oh, dear," Bilbo murmured sympathetically. He looked back at the other boy, wondering what had set Frerin off. "I think I'd better get him home."

"I'll go with you," Red offered at once. He scowled over his shoulder. "Just after I take care of something."

He showed up at Bag End with a black eye, a swollen cheek and a smug grin. "His name's Alfrid. I told him to keep away from Frerin."

Bilbo paused as Red marched confidently into the room. "How did you find Bag End?"

"Asked around." Stiffly Red slung himself into a chair and wriggled to get comfortable. He fiddled with Frerin's hands and made an excited face, babbling nonsensically until the Dwarfling giggled.

"I suppose… tea for three, then," Bilbo said dubiously.

"I like cream in mine – no sugar. Thanks!" Red beamed and returned to entertaining Frerin.

"I think I've been adopted," Bilbo said to the frog kite as he dusted off another teacup. "I don't know if I like this."

"Ooh, and are there any of those green cake things? Frerin gave me one, once. They're the best thing since Maér's hotcakes!"

Rolling his eyes, Bilbo tromped back to the pantry. "Troublesome, meddling Dwarves."

He made a note to ask Lobelia for her recipe the next time she borrowed Frerin.

* * *

(Present Quest, TA 2941)

It was not the sound of lapping water that roused Bilbo from his numbed stupor. It was the sound of wood splintering under a heavy blow. Nori growled inarticulately and then screamed.

Bolting upright, Bilbo stumbled from the riverbank. He rubbed the grit from his eyes and stood transfixed, horrified by the moonlit scene.

Wargs scuttled among the barrels, sniffing out the occupants and baying with each new find. Two barrels had already been smashed apart. Nori moaned, clutching a spear shaft that had been rammed through his shoulder. Bofur dangled by his scarf, already turning purple.

"No!" Bilbo screamed, digging around for the ring. One Orc's gaze snapped in his direction just before the cold metal clutched his finger. Fumbling for Sting, Bilbo rushed forward as a third barrel was flung against a tree. It burst into shards and Fíli and Kíli rolled apart. Dazed and cramped, they could only shout and reach for one another before the Orcs surrounded them.

Biting down against an outcry, Bilbo thrust his sword into the nearest Orc. It gurgled, holding its stomach in confusion. Before Bilbo could reach the next Orc another barrel was smashed. Bifur jabbered curses as he was tossed aside, while grimy hands yanked out Frerin.

"Frerin!" The cry was torn from Bilbo's throat before he could stop himself. Instantly a blow crashed into his head. An Orc towered above him, cudgel raised for a second strike. Somehow the ring had slipped from Bilbo's finger.

"Bilbo!" Frerin screeched as black arms surrounded him, dragging him away from his kin. "Bilbo!"

Bifur snarled and sprang on one of the Orcs, twisting its neck viciously. The beast flopped like a beheaded partridge. Flinging up his scythe, Bifur sliced through one Orc, then another, cutting through the throng to reach Frerin. The path thus cleared, he snatched one Orc's scimitar and flung the crude weapon. Bilbo heard a short whine as the Orc behind him crumpled.

Nori had somehow regained his feet and rescued Bofur, and for a moment it seemed as though the Dwarves had a chance. But the rumbling of heavy paws shattered all hopes as a silver warg dashed between them, throwing Bofur aside and snapping up Frerin. Head reeling, Bilbo crawled towards the ring and thrust it onto his finger. He heard Fíli and Kíli howling.

A fist struck the silver warg's eye, forcing it to drop its prey. Standing over Frerin, Bifur raised his scythe against Azog. The White Orc merely curled his lips in a sneer. His mace whistled towards the Dwarf's head, easily sweeping past his defenses. There was a crunch and a shift in Bifur's eyes. His hands fell lax and his scythe clattered as he tumbled back onto Frerin.

"Bifur, no!" Frerin scrambled out with a high pitched whine. He bent over the Dwarf and shook him, keening. Azog looked on with intrigue, slowly guiding his mount until he could bend and scoop up the grieving Dwarf. Shrieking, Frerin kicked and writhed, bony fists pattering against white flesh.

"Thorin! Dwalin!"

"Leave him!" Bilbo shouted. He could hear Thorin hollering from the confines of his barrel. Amused, Azog merely lifted his prey higher. Two steps closer and Bilbo would reach him. He snarled, glowing blade raised high.

Suddenly Frerin was bundled against Azog, the iron speared arm jutting against his neck. Bilbo staggered short and howled. Azog laughed at Thorin's enraged shouts.

"So ends your filthy line. Finish them!"

Fíli and Kíli were ripped from one another, arms buckled behind them as they were forced to kneel. A torch was held to Fíli's face and he wrenched away, panting as blisters rose on his skin. Tearing at his hair, Bilbo whined in the back of his throat and pleaded for an answer. Someone would die tonight, and he could not save them all.

"Wait!"

The cry was torn from Bilbo's throat before he could even think. He yanked off the ring, shivering when Azog looked at him with astonishment.

"You don't need them." He didn't know what he was doing, and he prayed it would work. "What you want is me." Swallowing, Bilbo said calmly, "I am the Undying Warrior."

"Bilbo!" Frerin shook his head, gasping when the prongs dug deeper.

Azog studied the Hobbit dubiously, then began to laugh. His mockery was joined in by the other Orcs as he pointed to Bilbo.

"The Halfling thinks himself a Dwarf!"

"No," Frerin gasped, frantic eyes latching onto Bilbo. _Leave me. Don't let them catch you. He'll kill you._

"Frerin," Bilbo whispered.

Clamping Frerin against his chest, Azog swung his mace at Bilbo's head. The Hobbit threw himself to the ground, gasping as iron brushed through his hair. Paws skittered around him as the warg circled for another attack.

Suddenly the air hissed and arrows bombarded the Orcs holding Fíli and Kíli. Azog snarled, brandishing his mace at the two Elves standing by the river. Abandoning the Dwarves, the Orcs convalesced on their new enemy. A third archer's arrow struck the Orc beside Nori, narrowly missing Azog.

"Kill them!" Azog roared, whirling his mount away. Bilbo stumbled into the beast, catching a handful of fur. Iron rammed into his forehead and the stars wavered a second time. Tumbling, Bilbo clutched the whirling ground and shouted a moan.

"Bilbo!" Blond curls swam in a sea of black. Bilbo's last memory was of pinpricks of frantic blue and Kíli's furious roar, before the stars claimed him.

* * *

Favorite = Red adopts you as his second-cousin. Review = Red lends you his favorite Bunny (which entitles you to an entire day spent with itty-bitty Frerin and Red, with Bilbo accompanying).


	33. Fall In Vain, Like Desert Rain

**The Muses** thank TheMusicalDevil for offering the prompt of "having Frerin sneak into his brothers' beds (even though he's not supposed to)" for the following memory segments.

* * *

_Thorin's brother started having nightmares when he was seventeen. His thready voice whispered of hopelessness and despair, and the frightening image of an undefeatable foe. Thorin rolled over and told him to go away, but that didn't stop him from letting Frerin sleep in his bed._

_Occasionally._

_Usually he told him to bug off and go bother Dís._

_Usually Frerin didn't listen._

_The nights that he did listen, Thorin found himself knocking on Dís' door – just to make sure the brat hadn't tripped and hit his head, of course. There was no reason to worry that Frerin was unusually compliant, with a scared look in his eyes as though he was ready to leap from the nearest causeway. The brat wasn't suicidal – Thorin had found that out when Frerin spent three hours clinging to a mine wall in terror that he would fall to his death – but there was something unnerving in those dreams._

_Thorin's sister's-son was no different. When winter rolled around, Frerin didn't wait for the nightmares to come. Thorin caught the six-year-old sneaking into his brothers' room often. Tonight Frerin bounded into Fíli and Kíli's bed, wriggling between them until he was nothing more than two dark eyes peeking out from beneath the covers. Kíli mumbled and rolled over, unconsciously making more room for the youngster. Fíli almost punched him. Luckily the bairn was too small, and Fíli struck Kíli in the cheekbone instead._

_Shaking himself awake, Kíli grumbled and whapped his brother with a pillow. Fíli snorted and resorted to stealing the covers, unveiling a very cold and upset Frerin. Kíli jumped in alarm._

"_Frerin, what are you doing here?" He sighed and scooped up the bairn, settling him on the far side of the bed. "Mum says you're not supposed to sleep here. Fíli could hurt you."_

_Frerin wriggled into his brother's chest, cuddling into the warmth and closing his eyes. Kíli sighed again. "Mum's going to kill me for this. Okay, fine – but just for tonight." He sacrificed his pillow, tucking it beside Frerin so that the child wouldn't tumble off the bed. Resting his head on his arm, Kíli brushed the fair locks._

"_Sh. Go to sleep, Frerin."_

_And the child did, with only a single terror to disturb him that night. Thorin sat awake in the other room, staring at the fire while a book on dragons lay open and neglected in his lap._

_Some things could never be changed._

* * *

(TA 2912, 29 years before the Quest. Frerin is 12)

"Adad?" Frerin's eyes bulged and he sprang from Bilbo's arms, tripping frantically as he ran to the giant, balding Dwarf. "Adad! Adad!"

"Frerin?" Bilbo squeaked. Half of him thought, _'Thank goodness, they're alive!'_ and the other half pleaded that he was wrong.

_No, this is a good thing!_ Bilbo reminded himself harshly. _He's found his family at last._

Frerin smacked into the Dwarf's leg and tugged on his coat, beaming like a star that had been returned to heaven. "Ada! Ada!"

The Dwarf turned and instantly Frerin's enthusiasm was crushed. Bilbo watched the Dwarfling crumble as he stepped back and tumbled.

"What're you looking at?" The Dwarf snapped. "Do I look like yer father?"

"I'm very sorry," Bilbo said rapidly as he gathered up Frerin. "He just lost his family."

Frerin fell limp, eyes wide in devastation. Slowly the tears built up and slid down wan cheeks. The older Dwarf's eyes softened marginally.

"Where is he from?"

"I don't know," Bilbo said. "He is of the Broadbeam clan. His family … well…."

The burly Dwarf winced. "I know of the tragedy." He knelt beside Frerin and narrowed his eyes, looking all the fiercer for his scrutiny. "Firebeard mother, that one."

"Beg pardon?"

"The nose is too small, and the hair fairer than most."

"Would you know if he might have any distant cousins?" Bilbo asked queasily.

"No," the Dwarf replied shortly, slinging his bursting pack over his shoulder. "My kin also met their end among Orc scavengers. I travel alone."

"Oh. I'm terribly sorry," Bilbo blustered.

"No sense bemoaning what's already been done." The Dwarf pointed roughly at Frerin. "Send him to the Blue Mountains. There'll be plenty of mothers crying for children once this cruel winter ends."

"Thank you, I will take note of that," Bilbo said blithely. He waited until the Dwarf lumbered out of sight and then blew out a sigh.

Frerin's eyes melted. "Fwen goway?"

"No! No, no," Bilbo said quickly. "Until someone claims you, you're staying here with me. Unless you want to find a Dwarf mother in the Blue Mountains, that is," he added in afterthought.

Frerin shook his head violently and burrowed into his Hobbit's arms. No, the little one had found his family right here in the Shire.

* * *

(Present Quest, TA 2941)

When the mist left Bilbo's eyes, his first sight was Kíli.

Alone.

Head pillowed in his arms, sword discarded in the grass, shoulders quivering in defeat.

Some twelve feet away was a newly dug grave with a simple, carved stone for the marker.

"No," Bilbo breathed. He staggered to his feet, brushing a hand to his eyes as the grass whirled into sky.

"Not so fast, Bilbo." Oin held him steady until the trees righted themselves.

"Bifur," Bilbo whispered, pleading that it wasn't true.

Oin's face twisted and he opened his mouth twice to speak, then shook his head. Bilbo fell to his knees and moaned. "No!"

"Is he awake?"

Thorin's voice was unrecognizable. Softer and rough, with a hitch that ill-suited a king. His eyes were bloodshot and weary, yet filled with compassion as he nodded to Bilbo. "On your feet, Master Baggins."

"Give him a moment." Fíli's tone was clipped, the first flickers of rebellion alight in his gaze. "He only just found out."

Cradling his head in his hands, Bilbo whispered, "How many others were lost?"

"Only the one," Dori said, settling down beside him. Soft wool nestled around Bilbo's throat. He looked up in confusion. Dori smiled waveringly and finished adjusting the knit scarf around the Hobbit's neck before patting his shoulder encouragingly.

"We'll be…." Dori broke off in a sob and quickly pressed a hand over his face. This time it was Bilbo's turn to comfort, and he let the silence rest. Grief could not be voiced among Dwarves.

"Come now, Dori," Thorin said, lifting the Dwarf to his feet. He held out his hand for Bilbo. "Bilbo?"

"Tell me Frerin is safe," Bilbo whispered. He may as well have asked for Lobelia to marry the Goblin King's son. Anguish smote Thorin's eyes and Bilbo felt his own heart shatter.

"No. No, my boy!" he cried, pressing his palms against his brow. Not Frerin. Not the timid, delightful child whom he had vowed would never feel an unkind hand again.

_What have they done to you? Frerin, Frerin, what have they done?_

"Bilbo, we will find him," Thorin said raggedly. "We will not rest until Azog's head is mounted on his own sword."

"It won't matter," Bilbo said in a rush. "It won't matter at all – not if Frerin… if he's…."

Thorin braced the Hobbit's shoulders and gently shook him to reality. "Do not say it, Bilbo. We have not given up hope yet."

"What are we going to do?" Bilbo whispered.

"Elrond's sons have gone ahead to track them," Thorin said quietly. "They will not escape us."

"It's going to take too long." Bilbo shuddered, unable to stop thinking of Frerin in Azog's grasp. "Why didn't you go after him while you had the chance?"

"The Orcs set fire to several of the barrels before they ran," Gloin said. "The cowards!"

"We rescued our own, and tended the wounded. We have not been idle, Bilbo."

Bilbo glanced at the earthen grave and bowed his head. "No, of course. I was not blaming you, Thorin."

He looked beyond the grave and frowned, noticing the odd onlooker for the first time. "Who is that?"

Thorin grunted. "Bard of Laketown. He is persistent."

"He wants coins for passage across the lake." Gloin scoffed. "He seems to think we are untrustworthy folk."

The man was tall, with a swamping, patched coat and unkempt black hair. A readied bow hung loosely from his fingers. His quiver was half empty.

"Was he here last night?" Bilbo wondered, remembering the arrow that had narrowly missed Azog; an arrow that had not been crafted by Elves.

"Aye," Thorin said.

"And a lot of good he did!" Gloin snorted. "Bled dry, that's what we are, and he demands our gold for –"

"They're here!" Bofur called.

Bilbo scrambled upright, raising his hand against the light. He strained his eyes, searching for a dark blur or the waft of bronze trailing behind the Elven brothers.

Elladan and Elrohir marched between the Dwarves until they reached Thorin. They paused at the grave, bowing their heads and pressing their hands to their chests in farewell. Elladan was the first to speak.

"The tracks branch into five separate directions. We followed two, only to discover we had been led astray. If we are to avoid losing any more time, we must broaden our search."

"Fíli, Kíli," Thorin called at once. Kíli stood quickly and Fíli broke from his daze. Both anxiously waited for the command. "Take the first path. Bilbo will accompany you."

"Right," Bilbo said, his blood warming at the chance to finally _do something_.

"Elladan will lead you," Elrohir said.

"We don't need his help!" Kíli began to protest.

"Kíli." Thorin stared his nephew down until Kíli reluctantly nodded. "Oin, Gloin, Bofur, Bombur; go with Elrohir. The rest of you will accompany me."

"Is there any way I can be of service?" Bard offered. "I may not know anything about Dwarves, but I can offer my assistance, however you see fit."

Thorin regarded him dourly. "We have no money."

"I did not ask any." Bard leaned on his bow, watching them a shrewd, quiet expression. "You are missing a little one. I have three children of my own. I would ask the same of any stranger, were one of them missing."

After a pause, Thorin asked, "How good are you with that bow?"

Bard smiled dryly. "Well enough." He whipped out an arrow and shot at random, piercing three leaves through the center before an apple thunked to the ground.

Thorin nodded curtly. "Go with Fíli and Kíli."

Kíli scowled and Fíli slapped his shoulder.

"We can take care of ourselves," Bilbo heard Kíli whispering.

"This is not about us, Kíli," Fíli responded. "Be grateful they interfered in the first place."

"No more arguments, Kíli," Thorin said. He cupped his hand around Kílis neck and leaned his forehead against Fíli's. "Look after Bilbo, take care of your brother, and whatever happens, don't come home without each other. Your mother would never forgive me."

"I'll look after him," Fíli swore.

Thorin nodded shortly, clapped them both fondly behind the neck, and left them to their own care. "Three calls if you find him; four if you need help."

"And one long blast if it's a dead end," Oin added.

"Let's go!" Thorin barked.

And then they were running, Fíli and Kíli sprinting ahead, Bard loping along on his long legs, Elrohir jogging easily as he searched ahead, wary of a trap. Bilbo huffed and puffed, trying to keep up with young Dwarves who made the passing miles seem like a stroll through the garden.

He forced his legs to move, thinking of a bright, ready smile and a Dwarf who adored the Shire and all its inhabitants, and vowed that innocence would be restored once more.

* * *

Favorite = Assist Bilbo with preparations for a Dwarven birthday party. Review = Explain the ridiculous notions of Hobbits to Thorin.


	34. Still the Fates Are Weaving

_Frerin didn't play hide-and-seek like other bairns. Fíli suspected it had something to do with the time Dwalin had pretended to be a hunting bear, which must have been mistaken for a warg or balrog because Frerin clung his mother's__ leg until supper. _

_Whatever the case, Frerin would never be the one to hide. He loved tracking down Fíli and Kíli, however. Often he giggled shrilly as he toddled along on reedy legs to the stables, the house or the garden to find his missing brothers. Kíli turned it into a riotous game, like everything else, and if Frerin found himself tickled to death and buried in a leaf pile, it only added to the fun._

_So long as he was the one hunting._

_One time Kíli tried chasing his little brother in turn, and Frerin hid under Fíli's hood until Kíli trudged home alone. _

_He was a fragile child._

"_There's nothing to fear," Fíli encouraged. "Dwalin would never hurt you, and Kíli…" He scoffed. "He can't even kick a pony."_

"_Kífí," the five-year-old lisped, and buried himself under Fíli's hair._

_They walked home in silence, broken occasionally by Frerin's off-key singing and a shift as he made himself more comfortable on Fíli's shoulders. Supper was ready when they arrived, and Kíli amended his wrongs by settling Frerin on his lap and offering him an entire seed cake – much to D__í__s' horror._

"_Did you boys train him today?" Thorin asked, noticing the tension. _

"_Hm, a little," Fíli said noncommittally. He and Kíli exchanged a guilty look._

_One day they would teach Frerin how to fight Orcs and hack apart the enemy. For now, though…._

"_I just want a little brother," Kíli whispered._

* * *

(TA 2912, 29 years before the quest. Frerin is 13)

"Boo!"

Frerin cackled as Red slid below the chair again. Half a second later he popped out from the side, tickling his small charge.

"Gotcha! Ack, he's eating me! Bilbo, help!"

"Three cups of flour and…." Bilbo squinted at the recipe, trying to read Lobelia's flowery handwriting. Every vowel seemed to be replaced with a different form of tulip. "How am I supposed to know what that means?"

"Bilbo, I need assistance!" Sighing, Red tromped over and held up his arm, demonstrating the squirming Frerin that was gnawing his sleeve. "Can you please feed the dragon?"

Bilbo glanced at the clock. "Oh, is it tea already?"

"Yes, it was tea already an hour ago!" Red rolled his eyes, begging the ceiling lamps for patience. He dipped his finger in the cake batter and stuck it in his mouth, gagging at the taste. "There's an impressive addition called honey – ever heard of it? Bees make it. It's rumored to make ordinary desserts –"

"Yes, I know how to bake, Red!" Bilbo reached for his mother's kettle and thrust it into the Dwarf's hand. "Here, make yourself useful and set the water to boil."

"You mean you have to boil the water first?" Red sniffed the kettle, baffled. "Huh. Maybe that's why my tea always tastes like blackberry leaves in water."

"Yak!" Frerin scowled.

"Peppermint, not blackberry," Bilbo said absently. He retrieved the sugar and dumped in a little more than the recipe required.

"That's right, cause li'l Bunny here likes blackberry in his tea!" Red said with a wide-eyed, maniacal look.

"No! No!" Frerin cried out, releasing Red in order to cling to Bilbo instead. "Pepeh!"

Red sniggered and sorted through the jars until he found the dried mint. "I have found the weakness of my dreaded foe. C'mon, Frerin; you can teach me how to boil water."

"Oh, bother it all!" Bilbo muttered, rolling his eyes. "Don't let him near the stove, do you hear? Next thing you know his hair will catch fire."

"Hey Bilbo, do you put the kettle on before or after you add the water?"

"If Frerin reaches his twentieth birthday unharmed, I shall count him the most fortunate of Dwarves." Bilbo '_tched_' disapprovingly and added another pinch of sugar to the cake mix.

* * *

(Present Quest, TA 2941)

The ground sloped abruptly and nearly yanked Bilbo's legs from under him. Bard steadied him, looking back in some small concern. Fíli and Kíli were flagging now, their energy spent. Elrohir leapt nimbly ahead as stray imprints and clues caught his keen eyes.

"There were twelve who passed through here – no, a thirteenth warg joined with them. Fifteen. We may have found the merged trail."

"Does that mean we're getting close?" Bilbo panted. Elrohir was too engrossed in the tracks to answer.

Dusk hollowed the sky and the mountains crumbled into gloom. As night blotted the fields Elrohir crouched beside the deeper imprints, following their trajectory. Suddenly he hissed and lunged to his feet.

"Ahead!"

New wings furled under Fíli and Kíli's feet, and they dragged Bilbo between them. Elrohir froze at the crest of the hill, his bow dangling at his side.

"What is it?" Kíli exclaimed, shoving ahead. He shuddered a gasp and Fíli fell still.

An array of abandoned shields and crude armor scattered the plain. Blood soaked the sand where Wargs and Orcs lay in dismembered, grotesque fashions.

"They tortured their own wounded," Elrohir whispered.

Bilbo clamped a hand to his mouth. Elrohir crept down like a fox, a single arrow brushing his bowstring. Kíli began to follow and Fíli lunged to stop him.

"Wait!" he whispered harshly.

No sound broke the night. Elrohir approached the single tree, fingers testily drawing back. He whipped around the trunk, searching for enemies, and abruptly relaxed his bow.

"Come quickly, Master Dwarf! Bring your flint!"

Bilbo tore down faster than either of them, his feet skidding and kicking up clouds of dust. He tripped and rolled, reaching out to protect his head. The dust settled and Bilbo yipped as he came face to face with a severed Orc head.

"Avert your eyes, Master Hobbit," Elrohir called. "You are needed here."

"Frerin!" Kíli's frantic shout drowned out Fíli's caution and suddenly they were both leaping over corpses, swords discarded as they converged on the crooked tree. Bard's flint sparked the smoldering fire and Bilbo caught his first glimpse of Frerin.

Instantly Fíli was in front of him, shielding his eyes. "No, Bilbo. Don't look."

"Frerin!" Bilbo shoved Fíli away, falling to his knees before the smallest Dwarf. "Frerin, no." Moisture dotted his hands and trickled down his face. His hand hovered over the bloody grooves; a hideous, mocking crown like the Dwarven kings of old, carved into the face of a child.

"What have they done to him?" Kíli hissed, enraged.

"His hands … hands…" Bilbo stuttered, fumbling with the ropes binding Frerin's wrists above his head. Bard swiftly sliced through them with his knife and Bilbo kneaded the blue fingers, searching for broken bones or imperceptible slices.

"They're unmarked," Fíli breathed in relief. "Bilbo, they didn't do anything."

"Check his wrists." Bilbo's mouth was hot and dry and the very air choked him. He tried to remember the dreams, and wished he had paid more attention. "He can't have left him whole."

But the tendons were intact, and the only bones marred were in Frerin's still-healing right hand. Dazed, Bilbo let out a shuddering breath and leaned over his boy. "Why won't he wake?"

Suddenly Fíli froze. "Bilbo, move back." He reached inside Frerin's jacket, patted around, and swore. "Kíli, give me your shirt!"

Instantly the young prince yanked off his tunic, using his teeth to shred it into strips. Fíli pressed his hand down on Frerin's chest and the Dwarfling finally let out a soft moan. Bilbo saw the dark streaks of blood and thought he might faint.

"How bad is it?"

"I don't know!" Fíli snapped. He ripped Frerin's coat aside and tore back the shirt, paling as he saw the long, ragged incision that still dribbled blood. "Elrohir…."

The Elven prince knelt beside them and pressed his fingers lightly on the wound. His other hand crept behind Frerin's back and returned bloody. He softly cursed. "My brother should be here."

"We don't have time!" Fíli argued. "Can you help him or not?"

Shakily, Elrohir nodded. He closed his eyes, drawing on the power only Elves knew. His hand pressed against the incision and the trickle of blood ceased. Some of the bruising faded and Frerin's rasp became more audible. Shuddering, Elrohir commanded, "Bind the wound. Elladan must continue the healing."

At once Kíli moved in, wrapping the cloth strips around Frerin's torso while Fíli supported him. They lifted their brother together, bickering silently until Fíli passed him into Kíli's arms. Bard lifted his horn and blew three sharp blasts.

"Bring him to Laketown," he insisted. "I have a boat to take you ashore. I do not have much, but I can offer you food and shelter for the night; you and all your kin."

Kíli scowled, a mirror of his uncle. "We have nothing to pay you."

"Nor will I ask it. Call the others."

Gratefully Fíli nodded. "Your kindness will not be forgotten."

Elladan's party arrived first. The elder twin ran to his brother, silently communicating before turning to the sons of Durin. "I will continue the healing when we reach shelter."

After watching Fíli and Kíli for so long, Bilbo ceased to wonder how so much could be exchanged without a word. He paced, unable to look at Frerin and unable to avert his gaze. The marks on his face were like child's paint in some twisted play, but these would never wash away.

"Thorin, Thorin…!" Bilbo wanted to blame him for everything; to rail against him as though he had somehow left Frerin to his doom. But there was no one to blame but Azog himself, and the White Orc had abandoned his prey.

Bilbo stopped short, revelation trickling through. "Why would he leave Frerin alive?"

"It was not intentional." Elladan stepped closer to the tree, his fingers stopping shy of the crude markings carved into the bark. "This is the black speech of Mordor. 'So falls the Undying Warrior.'"

"No!" Bilbo cried. "He can't have – there's nothing in the prophecy that says Frerin has to do anything!"

"What prophecy?" Thorin's ragged tone of defeat parted the throng of Dwarves. They bowed their heads as he and Dwalin passed through.

"Thorin, he's – he's still alive," Bilbo said, closing his eyes lest he see their expressions.

Dwalin shouted hoarsely, once in his own tongue and then in Westron, cursing the depths from which Azog was born. He took Frerin from Kíli's arms, cradling the child and brushing a few stray locks from the bloodless face.

"Help him!" he commanded.

"Dwalin, stop this," Thorin whispered. He looked back to Bard. "We have nothing with which to repay you, but I swear on my honor that if you will shelter us this night, we will recompense you."

Bard paused, considering the offer, and then nodded. "My boat is waiting just offshore from where your barrels washed in. You are welcome in my home."

"We cannot waste any time, Uncle!" Fíli urged.

"We accept," Thorin said. Bard nodded curtly and led the way.

Thorin moved to support Frerin's head and Dwalin shifted away. "No one carries my son." He glared possessively at Bilbo, warning him to stay clear.

They were a sad party that slunk into Laketown. The sleepy townspeople cast them suspicious looks before glancing briefly at Bard and returning to their chores.

"Keep your heads down," Bard said quietly. "You are traders visiting Laketown for the purpose of bartering and entertainment. If we are lucky, you will not be searched."

"How far away is this hovel of yours?" Dwalin growled.

"Not too far." Bard leaned against a wooden support and glanced rapidly down the street before motioning for them to pass. Fíli and Kíli clattered ahead, checking the coast before returning through the fog like the ghosts of ancient warriors.

"Father will murder us," Elrohir whispered from the side.

"You think?" his brother hissed. "We were never supposed to allow them to leave Rivendell in the first place!"

"Sh!" Bard hushed. He led them down a rickety corridor, where nearby rafts bobbed sluggishly and water gurgled under their feet. Half-rotted boards groaned under the breeze. Bofur yelped when a fish leapt from the water and decided to take refuge in the folds of his hat.

"Up here!" Bard called. The Elves bounded up the ramp without pause and Bilbo shakily followed. He hovered beside Dwalin until the Dwarf growled irritably.

"_Outsider folk," _Wilbur Boggins had once said. _"Can't say I'd be welcome in their company. Rude and bullying, the lot – or so I hear. Maybe they're not all bad, but I hope they never settle near the Shire."_

_No indeed_, Bilbo thought darkly. _It would have been better if they had never come to the Shire at all._

"Inside," Bard whispered. He held the door open, watching concernedly as Dwalin passed.

Elladan had already sparked the cold fire, and Elrohir flung coats, pillows and patched wool blankets into a heap on the floor.

"Ro, did you plunder his room?" Elladan scolded.

"Take your pick; frosted toes or an ice Dwarf." Elrohir tossed a blanket at his brother's head, then ushered Dwalin inside. "Lay him here. My brother will tend him."

"You did not tell me he was mortally injured," Elladan said, worry puckering his brow. "We should have taken him to Father."

"And risk a week's journey through the forest? You may not fear Thranduil, Brother, but I would sooner take my chances with the Dark Lord than face that monster after our latest mishap."

Elladan sighed and cautiously pulled back Frerin's tattered shirt. "I need warm water to remove the bandages. Ro, put more wood on the fire and fetch a kettle."

"What can we do?" Thorin asked.

"I need a knife, scissors and thread, the herbs from my satchel, and a company of quiet, unbothersome Dwarves." Elladan cast a sharp look at Dori, who was tending a snarling Nori. Instantly the barrage of words ceased.

Thorin knelt beside his nephew, pointedly refusing to move. Silently Balin joined him. Bilbo paced, chewing his nails and glancing rapidly at the fire, the rattling windows – anything he could help with and was not needed for.

"Take these," Elladan said, handed several pouches of herbs to Oin. "There is athelas among them, and other healing plants. I need a poultice for the wound."

"Is it poisoned?" Bilbo burst out.

Elladan felt the edges, his eyes sinking with some form of Elven wizardry. "There is corruption in the wound, but it is not critical. The athelas will draw it out."

"He is lucky," Elrohir added as he raced into the room. He nearly tripped over Bofur and the kettle tipped over Elladan's head. The elder brother glared, slicking icy water from his face.

"Sorry, Dan." Elrohir quickly set the kettle over the fire and stoked the flames. He turned back to the Dwarves. "The blade narrowly missed his heart. They must have thought him dead, or we would be helpless to save him now."

"Oh dear, dear, dear," Bilbo groaned, biting on his knuckles when his nailbeds offered no more service.

"Do not fear, Master Hobbit," Elladan encouraged softly. "Elrohir has sealed the worst of the injury, and I will mend him as best I can."

"Even if we cannot make him whole, he will heal within a few weeks' time," Elrohir added.

"What about his face?" Fíli asked raggedly.

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged a look. "We can minimize the scarring," Elrohir said uncomfortably, "But not even Father can erase wounds."

"We will do our best," Elladan assured.

"Oh, Frerin," Bilbo whispered, digging his palms into his eyes. "Frerin, Frerin…."

Soft material settled on his shoulders and he finally looked up, slumping at the compassion in Gloin's eyes.

"There now, Master Baggins," the gruff Dwarf said kindly, "We haven't lost him yet."

Bilbo nodded numbly, gathering the cloak more tightly around his shoulders. He looked around the sorry group, and inwardly wept for the sons of Durin. Ori had wedged himself into a tight corner, his face buried in his scarf, his shoulders quivering with silent sobs. Dori and Nori sat beside one another, the older comforting aimlessly, and the younger clutching his wounded shoulder. They were too discouraged to bicker. Bofur turned the broken blade of his cousin's scythe in his hands, flicking off rust and gore. Bombur patted his shoulder and Bofur thumped his back in turn, ever the encourager despite his pain.

Kíli sat hunched in his uncle's cloak. He hardly breathed, his eyes shifting from Oin to Frerin and back as he waited for some magical remedy to return his brother to him. Fíli paced methodically, travelling from Kíli to Thorin to Frerin and back again, as though somehow his presence might give them strength.

Dwalin remained stoic and abysmal, but never had Bilbo seen such fervor in his eyes as when he cradled Frerin's right hand, gently massaging the fingers and willing life back into his son.

Thorin and Balin perpetually exchanged glances. More than once Balin opened his mouth to speak, before he thought better of it. He looked up at Bilbo, ancient eyes knowing and bright. Bilbo sat quickly, uncomfortable under the sharp gaze.

Then his eyes shifted to Thorin, and it seemed a fine idea to pace with Fíli after all. Hardship had found a friend in Thorin Oakenshield, and misery was a close companion. Regret stood at his shoulder and assured him of a future epitomized by pain. Failure was a bitter reminder, of a brother lost and a nephew betrayed, until Bilbo wondered if there were any good memories left.

"Oh, Thorin," he whispered, clutching his chest at the knifing sensation of the other's pain. "What else has been taken from you?"

And was it possible that something tangible could be returned before it was too late?


	35. The Sympathy of Night's Mercy

The Muses continue to seek prompts for Frerin past, both when he's raised with Fíli and Kíli and when he is adopted by Bilbo, and they thank Booksnake3 for offering the following suggestion:

"I wonder, he's tried to make a music box and stuff so I wonder if he's ever tried to play an instrument? (Somehow I'd imagine it went the same way as the music box...)"

* * *

_When Frerin was eighteen, Thorin often mocked his paltry skills. He was an ill forger, swordsman, brawler, and student, and he was poorly attentive during matters of court. He tripped every third stride and found more ways to tumble down a staircase than D__í__s had flowers in her brooch collection. There was one area where Frerin never failed to make Mother laugh, however, and Thorin would not begrudge him that small talent._

_He could make a fiddle sing._

_Skippy jaunts, dreamful melodies from the tides of Men, love ballads, and merry tunes were all exercised to cheer a frustrated queen. When Frerin played, Mother smiled, and when he danced she had no choice but to skip along. Many an overcast day seemed brighter when the queen's laughter filled the room._

_When Kíli first tried his hand at a fiddle, Thorin nursed a headache for three days and Fíli spent the better amount of that time with a pillow tied around his head. Dís endured one week of screeching before she banned her son's practice to the outdoors. Kíli was persistent, however, and within two years he was allowed to accompany the musicians on Fíli's birthday._

_Once Frerin was born, both Fíli and Kíli were sentenced to practicing outdoors. The babe scarcely slept more than an hour at a time, and Dís craved every peaceful moment. Every now and then, however, Kíli would sneak inside while his mother was sleeping and quietly summon the winds and oceans of harmony. Frerin would watch him unblinkingly, one finger hooked in his mouth and one foot jumping to the tune. The house would be silent for half an hour, and then Kíli would dart outside before his discrepancy was noticed._

_Thorin never let on that he usually watched Frerin while Dís napped. He would sit quietly until Kíli was certain he was alone, smile at the thought of his erroneous nephews, and return to his book, enjoying the music until it was time to wake his sister._

* * *

(TA 2915, 24 years before the Quest. Frerin is 16)

Frerin was infallibly transparent when it came to birthday wishes. While Red fretted about whether the smaller Dwarf would prefer an axe or a giant cake ("Cause Maér says Dwarf-Dwarves like sharp things, but he's more like a Hobbit if you ask me…."), Bilbo merely selected the first item he caught Frerin staring at for ten minutes straight.

While Frerin tactfully admired the frosted cake with a hatchet smacked through the top ("Just to be sure you know, those things don't go in your head," Red warned.), his eyes glowed when he discovered the fiddle laid across his chair. He tested the strings and adjusted the tautness, then drew a careful note. Bilbo waited for all the cats in the neighborhood to begin yowling.

There was a slight screech, a cautious tune-up, and suddenly a clear note filled the room.

Flabbergasted, Bilbo sat back as a stuttering tune was pulled from the strings. Red waltzed inside, stuffed his mouth with cake, and muttered around the goopy mess, "Should've stuck a violin in the cake instead."

Long afternoons were spent in exercises, from repetitive lilts to remorseful tunes. Wilbur Boggins directed Frerin to his sister-in-law, who tutored the lad until he could mimic the river's laugh and the merriment of a summer breeze. When Frerin turned thirty he even played for Bell Goodchild's wedding, though it must have pained him to see her handed over to Hamfast.

"You knew how to play before," Bilbo guessed one winter evening.

Frerin hummed softly, coaxing a new tune from the now-worn fiddle. The haunting notes filled Bilbo with melancholy, and he found himself wishing for things beyond the Shire; dragons and rugged hills and forests brimming with wonders.

"I've never heard such a tune," Bilbo murmured.

"It's a song about a lonely mountain," Frerin said.

The melody deepened as snow began to fall.

* * *

(Present Quest, TA 2941)

Bruised nails carded through bronze hair, sifting out a bead before detangling the rest of the braid. Bilbo watched the monotonous rhythm, trying not to nod off with the rest of the snoring Dwarves. Sleep was not an option for Kíli.

The middle Durin leaned by the hearth, Frerin's head nestled in his lap. Dark bandages covered the horrid streaks on his brother's face. "A Wraith's Crown" Dwalin had called it, clenching his axe with the need to behead some ugly creature. Kíli trailed his thumb down the cloth strips, careful as though with a newborn lamb.

"What happened?" he whispered. He looked up sharply and Bilbo reeled, never having seen a bleaker night in any Dwarf's eyes. "What happened, Bilbo?"

"I … It… I don't …." Bilbo's voice fogged and he could not answer. Kíli had not expected one. He continued sorting Frerin's beads, lining up the glass bits that were not broken.

"He tore his hair." Anger husked Kíli's voice as he found a single lopsided metal bead; one of Red's earliest forging attempts. All the other metal beads were gone, hacked away with a sharp knife or simply ripped from Frerin's scalp.

"I have some spare beads…." Bilbo said faintly. He cradled his head in his hands, ordering himself to wake up. This was all a nightmare brought about by Frerin's dream-journals. They had never left on this maniacal quest, Azog was but an illusion, and Frerin was tucked safely in bed, dreaming about tea cakes and leading little Rosy to an genuine fairy den.

Kíli reached over and dug into Fíli's pocket. The elder stirred and Kíli stilled, waiting until Fíli fell back into a restless slumber before withdrawing his hand. He laid a few silver beads on the floor beside the glass bits.

"Where did Frerin get these?" Kíli wondered, examining the blue glass cylinders.

He pulled out a broken comb and began threading it through the tangled, slicked locks. Bilbo smelled the sharp tang of oil and gagged, sickened at what could have happened if they had been a few hours late. Frerin's clothing had been soaked with pitch and lamp oil. Thorin had recognized the significance instantly, but it was not until Balin whispered the story that Bilbo learned the Dwarves had burned their dead after Azanulbizar.

Azog knew a thing or two about irony.

Twice-dead, the traders among Men called it – a final step just to be sure the enemy was vanquished. The Orcs surely would have returned by morning, expecting the prisoner to have spent his last breath.

"He was waiting for Thorin," Kíli said softly.

"Pardon?" Bilbo stiffened.

"Azog." Kíli's eyes burned fierce and bright. "He wanted Thorin to be there. When he..."

He shuddered and focused his attention on picking another bur from Frerin's hair. The brothers were both swamped in the clothing that belonged to Bard's son, and the effect might have been darling had it not been for the sunken despair that plunged Kíli years into time. He had grown too much over the last few hours.

"Why can't I protect him?" Kíli dashed a hand over his eyes, abandoning the braid. "He means so much to me. Why wasn't I there for him?"

"No, no. You can't blame yourself," Bilbo said hurriedly. "These were Orcs, Kíli, and you were nearly killed yourself." He sadly shook his head. "If the blame is to fall on anyone, it is I who am at fault. I was the only one who was free and able to fight. And poor old Bifur… he was the bravest of us all."

"No one expects anything of you, Bilbo!" Kíli argued. "Thorin trained us for this day. We're warriors! We're supposed to be stronger than this!"

"Kíli, no one can be strong _enough_."

Kíli stopped short, and for an instant he looked very young.

"No one can be strong enough, Kíli," Bilbo repeated softly. "We can only do our best in the moment."

"It wasn't good enough," Kíli choked, his hands clenching in Frerin's sleeves. "It's never good enough."

* * *

"Da, are the Dwarves going to stay with us?"

"No, dear one. Why don't you go clean your room? Make it spotless. I'll call you when breakfast is ready."

Tilda frowned sullenly, then pecked a kiss on her father's cheek and scurried to her room. Sigrid watched with a fierce scowl.

"I thought we didn't like Dwarves."

"They had no other choice, and it is only for the night." Bard paused and added, "And these ones at least did not confuse your brother for a maid."

"They thought he was a Hobbit, and the red one didn't actually kiss him." Sigrid giggled.

"No, thank heavens." Bard sighed and tossed a dishcloth to Sigrid, who shook her head ruefully as she dried the pans.

"You can't make us leave now," Dwalin said, blocking Bard's path. "The bairn's only half alive, and –"

"What Dwalin means is that we will recompense you for your trouble, but it would do the lad ill to be moved," Balin negotiated. "If the youngest lads could have but two days of your time, I assure you that they will bring no ill luck to your family."

"That's what concerns me; ill luck." Bard snorted lightly. "You think I don't know what you're after? You mean to take the Lonely Mountain."

"We are merely tinkerers travelling to meet our kin in the Iron Hills," Balin said serenely.

"Are wayfarers such as yourselves commonly waylaid by Orcs, or were you merely caught at an 'inopportune time?'" Bard challenged with equal calm. "I saw those barrels. I watched the Orcs tear them apart. This was no paltry game; they were _waiting_ for you. How did they know you were here? Who sent them to kill you?"

Balin closed his eyes. "That is something we do not know. We only ask that you speak of this to no one."

"I have no intention of sharing your secrets." Bard moved to string his bow, laying that and a readied quiver by the door. "Nor will I share in your fate. As soon as your friend can be safely moved, I will ask that you leave my house. You will find the Master of the town most accommodating if you follow through with payment."

"Then this is your final answer?" Thorin said thunderously. "Your promises from before mean nothing?"

"I said that I would give you shelter for the night," Bard corrected. "I have not failed to keep my word."

"Uncle, we should be ready," Fíli said quietly. "He's right; he has no further obligation towards us. If we are to move Frerin we should do it soon, before he wakes."

"I'm sorry," Bard said haggardly, "But there is nothing more I can do."

He looked back at Tilda, who was watching them frightfully from behind the door, and held out his hand to her. She ran into his arms and he clasped her briefly before leading her up to the kitchen. Fíli heard Sigrid's muffled tones, followed by Bard's baritone, and knew there was little chance of changing his mind. He swore and rammed his foot against a flour barrel.

"We have lost family of our own along the way! Can he not see that?"

"Fíli." Thorin's sharp tone drew him up short. Shaking, Fíli unclenched his hands.

"You are the only calm I have left," Thorin said. "I need you to be reasonable."

"Aye, Bard had to make his choice, and so he has," Balin said. "It was his family or ours. Of course he would act to protect his children."

Fíli cursed softer under his breath and swung himself up the stairwell. "Someone needs to get Frerin ready."

"We're not moving him yet," Thorin called from below.

Fíli paused at the railing, pent with injustice. "We may not have a choice, Thorin."

He broke away before anyone could argue. Sighing, Fíli forced himself to calm before wandering into the central room. Kíli was holding Frerin upright while Elrohir smeared a dark green paste into the wound. Fíli cringed and forced himself to watch, noting that the inflammation seemed to have lessened. Russet eyes peeked open and Fíli nearly blundered into the wall in shock.

"Look! See, it's Fíli!" Kíli said too desperately, as though Frerin was a wee bairn toppled in the snow. "I told you we were all here. We've got you; you're safe. There are Elves and Men among us, which is laughable considering that four races are all crammed into this little house."

Frerin murmured a sigh. Fíli hastily knelt beside him, cradling the left hand. "Will he be all right?"

"The wound has not worsened, if that is what you mean." Elrohir smiled tiredly. "I am sure he will be fine, Master Dwarf."

Fíli slumped in relief. "Then he is out of danger."

Worry puckered Frerin's brow and he listlessly tugged his hand away. Kíli winced in sympathy.

"He doesn't want to be touched right now," Kíli whispered. He nodded towards Frerin's right hand.

Kíli was indicating the bandages, but Fíli noticed how the hand conveniently lay in Bilbo's lap as the Hobbit snored. He forced himself to think about Frerin and not the unfairness of Bilbo's presence.

"The fingers weren't broken again, were they?"

"No, indeed." Elrohir finished smearing in the dark paste and bandaged Frerin's side. "They were in a hurry, Elladan says. The tracks further down indicated they merged with a larger group." His face darkened. "We are not certain what that means."

"The cowards," Fíli murmured. "Is there any way to track them down?"

"Not unless you want to fight an army." Elladan swung inside and tossed his satchel to the floor. Bruised, newly plucked herbs bristled from the confines. "There are at least an hundred Orcs, and the last I saw of them, they were meeting an even larger group."

"Orcs never travel in packs," Elrohir said in alarm.

"These ones do." Elladan spooned boiling water into the bowl and crumpled in a handful of dark leaves. He held the bowl under Frerin's nose. The sweet, heady scent filling the room, and for an instant angry thoughts flitted from Fíli's mind and he felt like it was springtime. Frerin leaned back his head and sighed.

Bilbo crinkled his nose like a squirrel. He rose unsteadily, rubbing a crick from his neck. Dark eyes flitted up and with a pang Fíli's jealousy returned.

"Bihbo?" Frerin whispered.

The Hobbit's eyes lit up and he gently patted Frerin's hand. "There, now. I'm here, and so is Fíli and Kíli. You see? Your brothers have you safe and sound."

A faint smile twitched at Frerin's mouth as his fingers curled around Bilbo's hand. Unconsciousness quickly stole him away again. Kíli sighed.

"When will he wake fully?"

"In time, Master Dwarf," Elladan assured. "You must give him time."

But Durin's Day was fast approaching, and time was something they did not have.

* * *

When I first read Lord of the Rings, I pictured Kingsfoil to be a lot more … kingsly. Not like a weedy plant. 'Sigh'

Don't be hating Bard, here. :( He's faced with the choice between his children and perfect strangers, and a natural instinct would be to protect his family first.

Favorite = Search for "pigweed" with Bofur. Review = Gather athelas with Aragorn.


	36. Don't Need This Final Curtain

**A.N.** Here we enter a darker arc of the script… probably the darkest. Warning ahead of time, since the muses were nearly murdered the last time I did something like this. (Ducks behind massive pillow fort to impede certain death) I'm sorry, but it's necessary for the plot!

* * *

"_Balin, Frerin. Say 'Balin.'"_

_Frerin's wide eyes proved he was by no means enthused with the lesson. He merely stared at Balin, one thumb jammed into his mouth, and then looked pleadingly at Fíli. _

"_Dabah?" Frerin held up his toy dragon to demonstrate._

"_Not 'dragon', Frerin. 'B-ahl-in."_

_Frerin sighed. "Dabah."_

"_As attentive as his ancestors." Balin smiled in sad fondness. "Well, not every lad is a warrior."_

"_Thorin says he must learn quicker," Fíli said unhappily._

"_Thorin doesn't know everything, lad." Balin patted Fíli's shoulder. "He will be a wise king. Perhaps not a patient one, but he means well; remember that."_

"_I will try harder," Fíli assured. "Frerin will catch up with the other children."_

_Again sorrow flashed across Balin's eyes. "Don't rush it yet." His eyes glimmered in memory. "Not every lad is born to be a prince. He'll be tried enough when he reaches thirteen, the same as you and Kíli."_

"_Kíli's training began when he was six," Fíli reminded uncertainly._

_Balin's face shadowed. "Aye, and Thorin's when he was just a babe. The younger…." Abruptly he broke off and shook his head. "Thirteen is time enough. Let the innocence last while it can."_

_He left Fíli standing alone, with confusion in his heart and his arms full of a snoring Frerin._

* * *

(TA 2912, 29 years before the Quest. Frerin is 13)

"Red, Frerin! Say Red!"

"Edwa!"

"Red. R-r-red."

"Ewad?"

"How come he calls you Bilbo and he can't say my name?" Red pouted. He plopped a stuffed dragon on Frerin's head and sniggered as the bairn looked up with crossed eyes.

"It's 'Bih-boh,'" Bilbo clarified as he dusted the shelves. "Two syllables, and he hyphenates the 'i' to an 'e' every time."

"Maybe 'Reed' then," Red mused. "Hey, Frerin, say 'Reed!"

"Weed?"

"I'm not a garden blight, you silly platypus!" Scowling playfully, Red mussed Frerin's hair and set the dragon toppling. Frerin snapped at his fingers and plopped the dragon back onto his head.

"Bilbo, you have a weird bunny." Huffing, Red scooped up the child and tickled his tummy before placing Frerin on his shoulders. "Hey, can I help?"

"If you like," Bilbo said, handing over the feather duster.

Humming trollfully, Red batted the duster over the books and scrubbed it in Frerin's face, "Dusting bookshelves, with Bilbo Baggins," he sang off key. "Dusting Frerin and his toy dwagon…"

"Watch him, now!" Bilbo scolded. "You'll give him a cough with all that dust!"

Red fell abruptly still, and an eerie glower encompassed his usual smile. "Bilbo, you know I'd sooner murder than let this li'l bunny get hurt."

It lasted for an instant, and Bilbo caught his first glimpse of Dwarven savagery.

* * *

(Present Quest, TA 2941)

They had left for an hour – only an hour! Fíli needed to clear his head and Kíli could no longer stand the hours of cringing under Thorin's sharp temper. They had been called everything from fools to babes that morning, and Kíli had dragged his brother out before _Fíli_ of all people tried to smash Thorin's nose. True, everyone was out of sorts, but once Bilbo started snapping it was time to make their escape.

"We shouldn't leave," Fíli cautioned after they had put two houses between them and the Master's rundown inn. "Did you even tell Dwalin where we were going?"

"Does it matter?" Kíli snapped back. "Everyone is too thick-skulled to notice we're gone."

"Kíli."

That had been their last sensible conversation. A run into a tavern had shattered under the influence of two drunk guards. The brothers were labeled filthy sewer rats, thieving from the Master's kind benevolence and defiling the goodness of Laketown.

"Greedy, upstart Dwarves! Go back to the holes from which ye came!"

It was Fíli who smashed the captain's nose. Honorable, patient Fíli, who never stepped on a rabbit kit, had instigated the fight. Kíli still remembered the captain's sullied words, before Fíli's fist clenched and the tavern exploded.

"If the White Orc finishes off the last of those runts, it'll be the least they deserve."

The next moment Kíli was fighting alongside his brother, caving in cheekbones and shins before dragging Fíli out of the tavern. Furious soldiers rattled behind them, swords raised to maim and rend. Cursing his foolishness, Kíli had no choice but to run with his brother.

"Not to the inn!" Fíli panted, swerving down a side alley. "We can't… let Thorin be blamed for this."

"Why did you do it in the first place?" Kíli hollered.

"Because Bilbo is _not _the only one who will defend Frerin!"

"They weren't even threatening Frerin." Kíli gasped, his initial sprint wearing down. "They spoke of all of us! Why couldn't you have let it alone?"

"You would have defended Thorin the same as I!" Fíli retorted.

They ducked under a bridge, sloshing through puddles of murky brine. Fíli led the way and Kíli followed, lunging across boats and catching his brother's arm when he almost toppled. Guards clamored overhead and around. Spears began to clatter, one narrowly missing Fíli's arm.

"Fíli!" Kíli shouted furiously.

"Down! Get down!"

The next moment Fíli's arm was around his neck, pulling him to the wet cobbles. An arrow thudded and Fíli hissed as his arm fell limp.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he insisted, pushing Kíli into a run.

"Your arm!" Kíli gasped. He held his side, wincing at the terrible stich.

"Just run!"

And so they ran. On and on, boots pounding and knees aching, tongues swelling and chests straining, they dashed between milling townsfolk and slid through pig swill, always but one dart ahead of their pursuers. A wall rose up on one side and the lake on the other, and with a dreadful skid Kíli was forced to admit defeat. They were caught.

"You, there!" the captain hacked, blood dribbling from his nose. "How dare you assault the royal guard!"

"Whoa, whoa!"

Kíli stepped back, wrinkling his nose as a scarlet haired lad stepped out of a rowboat. Bowing awkwardly, the lanky, weedy boy held out his hands.

"Sorry, I think these are mine – ours. I mean, I know them – him. That's my bunny."

The captain scowled. "More circus rabble? I thought your envoy left yesterday."

Fíli began to speak, and the red haired lad smacked him behind the head. "Sadly, a few of us remain. If you'll excuse me, I'll just get my wayward friends back and we'll cover the damages."

"That counts for your outstanding debt, freak," the captain said aggravatedly.

The scarlet lad bowed low. "Anything for the propriety of Laketown. Can I take them now?"

"Bah! Good riddance, meddling Dwarves!" the captain roughly waved them away. Nervously Kíli plucked Fíli's sleeve and followed the red…. Dwarf?

"Did he really call you a Dwarf?" Fíli asked.

"Insult the name and I'll trounce you," the lad replied. He fingered his braided sideburns and Fíli raised one eyebrow.

"Oh… I sincerely apologize."

"Hey, so I look like a Orc freak. S'okay! Bunny here looks like a Hobbit, cept his feet aren't bare and – _When did you get a beard?"_

Kíli froze in bewilderment. "Who are you?"

Narrowing his eyes, the scarlet Dwarf stepped forward and measured his forehead to Kíli's. "You grow over the summer? You're almost as tall as me! What's Bilbo been feeding you?"

"You know Bilbo?" Fíli exclaimed.

"Uh, yeah! Been looking after his Dwobbit for the past thirty years. Who are you?"

"Fíli," the golden prince said quickly.

The beardless Dwarf beamed and held out his hand. "People call me Red. Just Red. Don't ask about my Da – he's dead and good riddance."

"Ah…." Clearly Fíli did not know what to say. He introduced his brother instead. "This is –"

"Frerin, I know." Red swiveled to face Kíli. "What are you doing way out here? Is this guy some wacky half-cousin of yours? Please tell me he's not related to me somehow. Where's Bilbo?"

"This is my brother _Kíli_," Fíli grated. Mahal, he was acting annoyed today.

Red stopped short. "Kíli? Your real name is _Kíli_?" He scowled. "Ew, you're Longbeard? I am _so_ sorry."

"What is dishonorable about our people?" Kíli railed.

"Kíli, shut up," Fíli muttered. He stepped between the two and addressed Red. "I think you have confused us. Our youngest brother is named Frerin. He was raised in the Shire. Did you ever –"

"Oh, well that's a relief!" Red gusted. "I was worried he was turning into a Dwarf-Dwarf or something equally obnoxious. Is he here?"

Fíli and Kíli exchanged a glance.

"He's…."

"Frerin and Bilbo are here," Kíli said softly. "Our brother was injured."

Red's face turned to stone. "My bunny was hurt?" Ice eclipsed his dagger point eyes. "How?"

"Orcs," Fíli said shortly. "Azog tracked us down."

"And you let him." Cold fury poured from the not-quite-Dwarf as he stood taller. "You stiff-necked Longbeards and all your traitorous kind…. You left him to be tortured."

"What?" Kíli choked in horror. "It wasn't our fault!"

"How do you know he was tortured?" Fíli whispered.

Red stared him down. "Because I happen to work with a very perceptive not-quite-Elf, that's why. Word travels fast in our community." Slowly he backed down, eyes aglow. His fists loosened and the animosity faded in his expression. "But I'm not the one to blame you for what happened."

Sighing, Red shrugged one shoulder and motioned for them to follow. "Come on. Let's get you back to your shelter. I want to see how the bunny kit is."

Exchanging a wary glance, Fíli and Kíli followed. Red smiled thinly over his shoulder and ducked into a side alley. "Short cut. Don't worry, I know this town."

"Should we trust him?" Kíli whispered.

"Sh," Fíli cautioned. "I heard Bilbo and Frerin speak of him."

"When?"

"Not now, Kíli!"

"Why are you so grumpy?" Kíli sighed. Fíli elbowed him.

"Just this way!" Red called. He glanced over his shoulder and swung beneath one of the bridges they had crossed earlier. He paused beside the water, waiting for the brothers to catch up.

"All right, first question," Red said, folding his arms. "How was Frerin hurt? Was it Azog?"

"Why are you asking us?" Fíli sounded pained. "We already told you. There is nothing more to say."

"Oh, I think there's plenty more."

Gasping, Kíli whirled around and stumbled as a spidery figure detached from the shadows. White limbed and wiry like a crow, he surveyed them with beady eyes and blocked off their retreat. "You're the sons of Durin, aren't you?"

"Thrain's sons?" Red whispered. His eyes shifted and he slid one foot back like an archer preparing his bow. "Heirs of Thorin Oakenshield?"

The pale one smiled thinly. "Azog has been hunting you both for a long time."

"Who are you?" Fíli demanded. His swords were at hand and Kíli's arrow notched before the tall being could twitch.

But the pale one only grinned. "Say hello to your runty brat. You'll meet up with him soon."

Fíli's eyes widened with horror and he whipped around. "Kíli!"

Before the dark prince could move a scarlet clad arm wound around his neck and the water rose to meet him. Foam plunged into his mouth and he distantly heard Fíli scream. Wrenching his arm back, he stabbed back at his assailant. The pressure immediately vanished and Kíli yanked away, heaving for breath. He fumbled for another arrow, aiming at the white beast that bore down on his brother.

Suddenly pain flashed across his throat.

Fíli screamed.

Dazed, Kíli watched his bow clatter onto the cobbles. The ground spun alarmingly and he found himself looking up at his brother. Hot fluid pooled under his neck and ear. Screeching, Fíli flung himself forward again and again, only to be batted aside as the pale one laughed.

_Azog…._ Kíli thought briefly, before coherent thought fled.

He thought he saw Fíli fall down. Above him, Red braced his bleeding left arm, blue eyes haunted and empty.

"Why have you done this?" Fíli screeched.

"I had to." Red shuddered and choked down a sob. "You should have stayed dead!"

_What have we done wrong? _Kíli tried to say, but only a gurgle slid past his limp tongue. A body shifted and suddenly Fíli loomed above him, pressing his arm into Kíli's throat. He tried to beg him to stop, but his lungs felt dull and heavy.

"Hold on, Kíli!" Fíli implored. Crimson wet through his sleeve and stained his hand. "I'll – I'll get Uncle. _Please_, Kíli, stay with me!"

"Will he leave Frerin alone now?" Kíli barely heard Red's voice above the roar in his ears. "I did what he wanted. He doesn't need my bunny anymore."

The pale crow shrugged and flipped out his mace. "Deliver the bodies, then discuss payment. You're the freak negotiating with Azog, not me."

"Fee-" Kíli tried to say, and even that whisper took too much strength. The white one drew near, and Kíli could only keen in despair as a club whistled above Fíli's head. There was a crunch… a sob… and he clung to his brother as blackness devoured his sight.

_Don't leave me alone, Fíli….  
_


	37. Silhouette of Dreams

**Wow, my April Fool's Prank totally backfired on me. YOU WERE ALL SUPPOSED TO THINK FILI AND KILI WERE DEAD! Not only did I wither from a lack of screaming people, but I even got a few who were excited about the latest chapter. 'Sigh!'**

**Well, nothing to do but go on to the next chapter, then. The Muses are exceedingly disappointed. (Oh, stop complaining, Mini-muse!)**

* * *

Bilbo yanked awake, the terrible dream shattering his mind. _"You know I'd sooner murder than let this li'l bunny get hurt."_

"No!" he moaned, biting down on his blanket. "Not Red, he wouldn't…."

But of course Red would never hurt Fíli or Kíli. Stumbling to his feet, Bilbo scrubbed his hands over his face. Soft bickering drew his attention to the corner, where Fíli and Kíli were arguing over a half-assembled chess set. Shivering, Bilbo banished the last verges of the nightmare.

Frerin slept restlessly in his own room.

Thorin brooded.

Fíli and Kíli were hoarding the game, and Kíli practically snarled at Elrohir for suggesting that he battle the winner.

Frost dusted the window.

There were no white Orcs, no princes with slashed throats and crushed heads, and no trusted friend with Fíli and Kíli's blood on his hands.

All was well.

"_You know I'd sooner murder than let this li'l bunny get hurt."_

"Thank goodness the traders are nowhere near Laketown," Bilbo whispered.

* * *

**Favorite = … Oh, hang it all and just comfort the Mini-muse after its prank went awry. Next chapter will be soon! :D**


	38. Do Ghosts Cry Tears, Do They Feel Years?

_Toof! Toof! Toof!"_

_Fíli had been curious when his first tooth fell out. Kíli had cheered, jumping all over Thorin as he searched for a sweet tidbit as reward. Frerin was hysterical._

"_Ab – ba – aba!" The bairn frantically fitted the lost tooth to his gums, trying to shove it back in place. He held it out to Dwalin, begging his father to 'fix it'. "Ba! Ba!"_

"_You can't put it back," Dwalin said, cupping his hand for the tooth._

_Frerin screeched and pressed his hands against the empty gum space. "Fía!"_

"_Did he bloody his lip?" Nose buried in a historical, hair dripping from a bath, Fíli spared his brother a one-sided hug on his way to the fireplace. _

"_Toof!" Frerin insisted, bounding after Fíli. He pointed unhappily to his mouth. "Fía ba!"_

"_You want me to go back to the tub, or you want your tooth returned?"_

"_Fía ba!" Frerin screeched._

"_He wants to put the tooth back in his mouth," Dwalin said gruffly as he laid the bit of bone on the mantle. "I told him another one will replace it."_

"_Hear that, Frerin?" Fíli said, pausing in his reading to give his brother an enthusiastic smile. "Within a few weeks you'll have a brand new tooth! How extraordinary!"_

_Frerin's eyes bulged. "Oon toof?" _

_He bounded to the window, tripped over his feet, rolled into Thorin's legs, and proceeded to clamber up his uncle until he could see his reflection. Thorin grunted in displeasure as a bare foot kicked his head. Frerin peered into the window, twisting his mouth around and peering at the empty space. _

"_Oon toof," he said wondrously._

"_Kíli, did you tease your brother that his teeth were falling out?" Thorin asked grumpily._

"_I didn't do anything!" the lad shouted from the washroom._

"_Kíli, it's all your fault!" Fíli retaliated._

_Cheered, Frerin eased down and splatted into Thorin's lap. He stared at the gruff-looking Dwarf and was silent for a long time._

"_I think he broke his back," Fíli said sarcastically. "You need to hug him, Uncle; he's quite paralyzed."_

"_Watch your lip," Dwalin snapped._

_Perturbed, Fíli carefully set down his book. "Did I say something?"_

"_You're fine, Fíli," Thorin assured. "See if your mother needs any help."_

_The golden prince looked between his uncle and step-father and cautiously retreated. Dwalin and Thorin exchanged a glance._

"_He won't hear of it," Dwalin said, reaching to scoop up Frerin. The toddler remained still, his eyes glazed in that inexplicable, eerie manner._

"_I never said anything of the sort," Thorin assured._

_Dwalin nodded. He rubbed Frerin's back, easing muscles that were tense without reason. "Let the past rest," he murmured – more to himself than Thorin. "The young ones don't need to know everything."_

_Frerin wiggled another loose tooth with his tongue, and sniffled._

* * *

(TA 2931, 10 years before the Quest. Frerin is 32)

"_I find myself at my window in Erebor, a circlet weighing down my thoughts and scratchy, heavy wool encumbering my arms. I wait for my forty-ninth birthday. It's nearly midnight – if I can make it through the dawn, I know I will be safe._

"_It is snowing outside, and the oddity is that my window is right beside the ground. My room should be higher up in the mountain, near the treasury. Nonetheless, I appreciate the view, for something is coming and I must watch for it._

"_I hear it before I see it. I know I must run, but I cannot move. Armor clanks and heavy boots thud, and something feral growls. I reach for my knives and nothing is there. Slowly the Pale Orc breaks free of the storm. He knows me, and I know him, and I cannot run as he smiles and reaches for my throat..."_

Bilbo was not certain what made him angrier – the sight of Red's filthy hands mangling Frerin's precious journals, or the fact that the scarlet Dwarf was reading them aloud.

"Wha – put that back! What do you think you're doing?" Manners failed Bilbo entirely and he snatched the diary away, mussing the pages back in order before showing a flustered Red to the door.

"What? I just opened it to a random page! You didn't tell me Bunny was a bard. Why doesn't he tell stories at our camp? I bet those spooky tales would really –"

"Out!" With a fury his mother would have paled at, Bilbo shoved the Dwarf none-too-gently onto the porch. He slammed the door and allowed himself a moment of regret. Green paint in that particular shade was hard to find. He really should be more careful when kicking out unwanted visitors.

Tutting furiously, Bilbo flipped through the diary to see how many pages were stained with Red's muddy fingers. It appeared that he had only read the one excerpt. Bilbo thanked the stars that Red had mistaken them for odd sonnets instead of a glimpse into Frerin's secret past. How the circus Dwarf would behave if he thought his 'bunny' had been tortured….

Shuddering, Bilbo clapped the journal shut and tramped to Frerin's room, slipping the book under his pillow. He made a note to advise Frerin to find a new hiding place for his journals; Red was simply intolerable!

* * *

(Present Quest, TA 2941)

"What are you saying, Uncle?"

"He will not be accompanying us."

"But you promised –"

"Fíli." Thorin clapped his shoulder, firm and resolute. "Dwalin will look after him, and Kíli has volunteered to stay. I need you to accompany me to the mountain."

"We only have one chance at the door," Balin reminded. "Frerin will heal better in Laketown, and he can join us once he feels strong enough."

"You're leaving him?" Bilbo rushed from the doorway, heart pounding in his throat. "Just like that? You're leaving him behind?"

Thorin sighed. "This is none of your concern."

"Yes, I think this is my concern," Bilbo insisted. "Frerin is my charge, and if you haven't noticed, he's been awake these past two days. Has no one taken into consideration how he feels about –"

"He will join us when he's ready," Thorin said in a clipped tone. "Or has someone made you the leader of our company, Master Baggins?"

Bilbo clenched his jaw forcefully. "You can't leave him here. You've barely _spoken_ to him, Thorin. Now he'll think you're abandoning him when –"

"No one is abandoning Frerin," Fíli said softly. He turned to Thorin. "I will wait here with my brothers. We will join you at the mountain before midwinter."

"Fíli, this is no time for sentimentalism," Thorin said reasonably. "Erebor is your inheritance, and I will have you at my side when we open the door."

"But what about the dragon?" Bilbo pointed out. "I was out there with Bard just yesterday morning. There _is_ smoke rising from the mountain."

"Then I expect your expertise will come in handy," Thorin said.

"We've already worn out our welcome here," Balin added. "The Master will host our company for a short while longer; he will expect results soon."

"But … you said you wouldn't leave Frerin again," Bilbo said, aghast.

"I said I would not leave Frerin in _their hands_," Thorin said darkly. "_Alone_. Dwalin and Oin will stay with him, and one of his brothers will remain behind. You, Fíli, will accompany us."

"You aren't making this my choice, are you?" Fíli said agitatedly. He shook his head, backing away from Thorin's touch. "I'm going to sit with Frerin for a while. He's going to wake soon, and none of you can understand him when he's babbling. Excuse me."

Balin sighed and cast the king a longsuffering look. "Thorin, I told you to break it to him slowly."

"He has to make his choice." Slumping in defeat, Thorin looked out the window. Snow dusted the rooftops and slushed the walks. "It's nearly winter, Balin."

"Better then that the lad stay," Balin agreed. "The mountain is no place for a wounded bairn."

"Uncle?"

Thorin swiveled around, his face white. Bilbo squeaked as he saw Frerin leaning heavily against the door, one arm supporting his middle while the other worried his sleeve.

"Frerin, what are you doing?" Bilbo scolded gently. "Elladan says you aren't to stand for another week."

"I need to have a say in this," Frerin rasped softly. He blinked slowly, eyes glazed with pain and medicines. "Don't go yet."

Thorin sighed. "Frerin, Bilbo is right. You should rest."

"It's winter," Frerin murmured. "Can't you wait until spring?"

"Bilbo, take him to his room."

Thorin turned away, and something dark clinched in Frerin's eyes.

"Course, cause that's how you solve everything, isn't it?" He stumbled into the room, eyes flashing with animosity.

"Frerin!" Bilbo warned, but the Dwarfling wrenched away from him.

"You just walk away like it doesn't matter!"

"Frerin, back to your room." Thorin ordered.

"Or what? You'll hit me? What can you possibly threaten me with, Thorin?" Frerin shoved Balin's hand aside, heedless of Thorin's shock. "That's just it, then, is it? You'll walk away and leave everything – Fíli, Kíli, even your own sister, because they just happen to get in the way of your plan!"

"Frerin, shut up!" Thorin barked.

"Why? Why do you care? It's just words, isn't it?"

"Balin! Take him to his room!"

"Get off of me!" Snarling, Frerin kicked out and skittered away. "That's your fix to everything - throw me away and hope I don't bother you. Did it help when I was dead and you didn't have to deal with me any longer?"

Bilbo's hands flew to his mouth and the world dipped. "Frerin – Frerin no!"

Thorin staggered. "What are you talking about?"

"You left me! You left me to die and you didn't care!"

Silence engulfed the room. Balin turned and snapped to Fíli and Kíli, "Leave. Now."

Stunned, the brothers retreated from the doorway. Frerin stood alone, heaving sobs wracking his thin shoulders. "You left me. I wasn't dead, and you _left_ me."

Horror knifed Dwalin's eyes as he stepped forward. "Son, we –"

"Don't touch me!" It was the rabbit's high pitch of terror that only Frerin could make. His eyes lit on Dwalin's sword and he backed away, shivering.

Determined, Dwalin eased forward. "Frerin, what is this madness?"

"I wasn't dead!" Suddenly he lunged forward, striking randomly as though he could beat his own pain into his father. "I wasn't dead and you didn't even try to save me! Why didn't you save me?"

Thorin whipped off his cloak and flung the material over Frerin's head, buckling him into submission. Frerin screamed and flailed, thrashing at Thorin's waist.

"Elladan!" Balin shouted.

The Elven brothers skittered into the room, each working to hold Frerin down. A dark green liquid was poured down the Dwarf's throat and he spluttered, his struggles growing weaker. At last Frerin's eyes rolled back and he slumped in Thorin's arms.

"What was that?" Elrohir whispered. Thorin and Dwalin stared at one another.

"Lads, I think we have a problem," Balin said softly.

Elladan pulled back Frerin's vest and hissed. "He tore the wound."

"I will fetch more athelas," Elrohir offered. He sprang over his brother, anxious to leave the house.

"Dwalin, what is happening?" Thorin asked hoarsely.

"Oh, you don't understand it, do you?" Bilbo moaned. He pulled Frerin's dream-journal from his pocket and flipped to the page he had never fully read. "There, it's all right in front of you. He's not just any Dwarf, he's – he's seen things before."

Thorin studied the scrawled handwriting and slowly a notion dawned. He looked up at Bilbo and all color washed from his face. "Where did you get this?"

"You wanted to know what he dreams about," Bilbo said softly. "It's all right there. This is everything – everything he's recorded since leaving Bag End."

A sob broke Dwalin's composure and he yanked the book from Thorin, nearly tearing the manuscript in his fervor. A lone tear marked his face. "Where did he get these stories?"

_Stories_. How Bilbo wished it was so innocent.

"There's something I need to tell you."


	39. Admit There is No Second Chance

(**Neocolai** straps pointy hats on the Muses, Original Muse glowers, and Mini-muse eats all the cake)

Oh yeah, it's my birthday today! :D Have a chapter a few days early.

* * *

Bilbo spoke rapidly, babbling about Frerin's childhood and the nightmares and the long winter nights and every little detail that matched up with Gandalf's telling. When the Dwarves heard the wizard's name, Dwalin swore and punched his fist through the window.

"You knew of this since Frerin's youth, and you told me nothing?" Thorin raged. "Not even when that meddling, cowardly wizard refused to share his secrets?"

Only Balin remained calm. "Thorin, we should have seen the signs." At Thorin's baffled stare he added, "Durin the Deathless was born six times. Why not our own lad?"

"He should have remained dead!" Bilbo jumped at the bitterness in Thorin's voice. "What life is this for him, Balin? He never should have woken."

"Oh, you blame the boy for your own mistakes," Dwalin growled. "He'd have joined us on the quest anyways, had we protected him when we had the chance."

"Do _not_ bring Azanulbizar into this!"

"It's already here, Thorin," Balin said quietly. "It's right upstairs. We will all have to face him sooner or later."

"I was ready to face it when he was a child," Thorin growled. "When he was afraid of me and clung to his mother, I knew something was amiss. But _you!_" He advanced on Bilbo and for a moment the poor Hobbit thought he might be strangled. "You poisoned him against all of us. You with your snug hole and books. You think that Dwarves have an easy livelihood? You think we would not have offered him all of these had we the chance?"

"Now, Thorin," Balin said, easing him away from Bilbo, "I don't think our burglar is to blame. Any wayfarer could have taken in the boy, and his fate might not have been so kind."

"Why did you never tell us, Bilbo?" The hurt in Dwalin's voice made Bilbo feel like a seven-foot-Orc. "What am I supposed to do with him now?"

"He knows nothing," Thorin said before Bilbo could stutter a reply. "He cannot help anyone but himself."

"Now listen here," Bilbo snapped, stepping in front of Thorin. "I may not know anything about Dwarves, but I know a hurting child when I see one. He wasn't ready for you to hear any of this! And I certainly wasn't going to share his secrets when –"

"You think he was the one in pain?" Thorin's fist slammed into the mantle just above Bilbo's head. "You think I did not hear his voice in my dreams, or see his shadow when _your Frerin _was afraid to be near me? Do not think that I have not spent _every night_ regretting what befell my brother!"

"But he isn't _your_ brother now," Bilbo said shakily. "He is Fíli and Kíli's brother, and you are his Uncle Thorin."

Thorin growled inarticulately and slung his fist away. He paced in a rage, heavy boots pounding against the hardwood floor. "_Uncle Thorin_. What honor does that give me? He would not trust me then, and he has made it clear where he stands now."

"What he has made clear is that he _wants_ to trust you!" Bilbo exclaimed. "Couldn't you see it when he was asking not to be left behind? He knows his brother is dead. _Dead_, Thorin, you changed in Azanulbizar and nothing is bringing the old Thorin back!"

Thorin stopped in his tracks, revelation slowly dawning. Bilbo rushed on.

"I don't know what you were before, but I can see that you are nothing like what Frerin feared." Bilbo paused in concentration. "Well - you may want to stop physically scolding him whenever he does something fool-headed, but the fact of the matter is, you would never intentionally hurt him. Now, I can see that, and he is trying to see it, and you are making it very hard to prove right now. So forget Azanulbizar and treat him like the little brother you wished for all those years ago."

The shields flitted back into Thorin's eyes and he strode forward until he was looming over Bilbo. "If he has forgotten nothing, what makes you think Azanulbizar can be erased?"

Bilbo swallowed and held his ground. "Because you are going to rewrite history. Next time Azog shows up, you are going to whap off his head." It would be interesting to see it role into a gopher hole like … but Bullroarer Took had no context here.

Thorin scoffed. "You think it is that easy? You think I can win him over by slaying his enemy? Twice now, I have fought Azog for his sake, and nothing has changed."

"But you have," Bilbo reminded him. "Frerin sees that, Thorin. He wants to be your nephew – your baby brother – whatever you will allow him to be. He wants to look up to you … he just doesn't want to _become_ you if that is the requirement."

At Thorin's confused look Bilbo clarified gently, "Stop trying to make him into a soldier. He doesn't like bloody battles or duels, and I think you've seen by now that he won't _get_ any stronger, even if he tries. Stop making him something he cannot be, and let him thrive in the areas where he can. He likes poetry, gardening, forging little whimsical things…." Bilbo trailed off and sighed. "Just … just knowing that people care about him: that's all he wants, Thorin."

Stormily Thorin pushed past the Hobbit, lumbering out into the shivering fog. Bilbo shuddered. Even from afar, the mist particles were like icy needles peppering his face. Defeated, he turned to Balin.

"Give him time, lad," was all that Balin could say. "This is a wretched moment for all of us."

The day was indeed somber. Fíli and Kíli waited anxiously, wondering what the shouting had been about. For an hour Dwalin paced in the other room. At last the air whooshed as he followed after Thorin. The other Dwarves seemed oblivious; for whatever cause, Balin had not chosen to share the revelation with them.

Bilbo waited. Luncheon came and went, and only a few Dwarves were happy at the prospect of food.

Frerin slept. Occasionally Bilbo thought he saw brown eyes glitter, but the glint was gone as soon as he looked closer.

Elladan and Elrohir conveniently found business in town to attend to. Eventually Bofur and Gloin tired of waiting and set out to find a decent tavern. Bifur's shadow still hung over his kin; Bombur quickly joined the two.

Bilbo fully intended to wait inside until Frerin woke, but eventually the stuffy room and nerve-wracking silence prodded him out into the cold. He bundled a scarf around his neck, breathing sharply into his hands.

"Not five minutes and you're like ice," Bilbo scolded himself. He gathered his coat closer and stamped his feet. "Beastly weather. No reasonable Took would be outside right now."

Any reasonable Baggins would be snug and safe in Bag End, so it was only repetitious to scold that half. Bilbo comforted himself by grumbling up a storm and imagining how he would encourage his forlorn Dwobbit.

As truth had it, Bilbo had no answers. His one hope for changing Frerin's world was bundling him up and taking him back to the safety of Bag End, but that was not the ultimate cure. Frerin needed sanctuary even though his world was awry and his darkest secrets divulged. He needed a place in this wilderness to call home.

He needed his family.

Thorin would not listen to reason, or perhaps reason would not listen to him. Whatever the matter was with the thick-headed, stubborn oaf, Bilbo had given up on him. Dwalin, on the other hand, must speak to Frerin. Whatever he had been before, he was still the boy's father, and Bilbo had seen small miracles in the Elven dungeons. He refused to believe that Azog could have corrupted that bit of magic.

He found Dwalin sitting on the warf overlooking the Lonely Mountain. The snowy peak was so near that Bilbo had to stand in awe for a few minutes.

"You came to tell me something, Master Baggins?"

Dwalin's voice was rough and oddly detached, catching Bilbo off guard.

"Erm, yes, actually. It's … you mind if I sit down?" Without waiting for an invitation, he joined Dwalin on the peer. Goodness, it was a wonder Frerin found any comfort in the colossal Dwarf! Had Dwalin been his father, Bilbo would have lit for the Shire for sheer terror of being squashed! "It's about Frerin, see."

Dwalin grunted. "Tell him…I understand. He's free to do as he wishes."

Bilbo paused for a moment, trying to sort through that perplexing thought. "Beg pardon?"

"Don't play the fool with me, Bilbo. If he wants to return to the Shire, then my blessing be upon him." Lower Dwalin mumbled, "He deserves as much."

"No, what he deserves is the family he lost thirty years ago." At Dwalin's inscrutable look Bilbo plowed on. "Don't throw him away, Dwalin. I can't fix him – not this time. He needs you more than anything."

Dwalin scoffed lightly, and the snort ended on a sob. "Do you know what his last sight was? I held him as he was bleeding; legs and arms useless, barely able to see the hands in front of him… and I plunged an Orc blade through his heart."

Bilbo clapped a hand over his mouth, his horror only a shadow compared to the deeper grief before him.

"Can you not see it now, Bilbo?" Dwalin rasped. "There is nothing I can do to beg his forgiveness. I never gave him a chance. I held that boy like the savior he begged for, and I murdered him."

"No," Bilbo whispered frantically. "No, it wasn't –"

"Don't try to ease my pain, Bilbo," Dwalin said jaggedly. "Mahal knows I deserve it." He smiled courageously. "Take him home. Give him the wealth and peace of the Shire, and don't ever let him walk out your door."

Snorting, Bilbo shook his head. He imagined it was raining, and there was reason to smile when he had water on his cheeks. "No, you see, that won't do at all." Scoffing lightly, he bravely met Dwalin's eyes. "You see, he may be my Dwobbit, but he's not my son. What he needs right now is his father."

Dwalin brushed him aside. "I was the father to a wee bairn who fled at the sight of a mouse. This grown up lad… I don't even know him."

Bilbo waited a few minutes and then surreptitiously cleared his throat. "You know, he still lets me chase the rodents out with a broom. He rescued a nest of baby shrews once, but he wouldn't touch them."

Fondness crept into Dwalin's eyes, and Bilbo urgently nudged him. "Come on. He's waiting for you."

"You Shire-folk never give up, do you?" Dwalin growled.

"Not unless tea and unwanted relatives are involved."

Snow dusted the cobbles around them, and the Lonely Mountain loomed forebodingly ahead. Bilbo allowed himself the hope that perhaps – just this once – everything would turn out right in the end.

* * *

(TA 2912, 39 years before the Quest. Frerin is nearly 13)

There was only one time Frerin enjoyed watching rodents, and that was when Lobelia was whapping them with a broom. Oh, how Lobelia could screech when Frerin came running to her, pointing in terror at a baby mouse. Fury would twist the unpleasant face and the broom would be retrieved, and Frerin would watch in awe as every rat or shrew was shooed out of the house.

There were so few times Lobelia could consider herself a hero – and it made her pleasant enough that even unwelcome relatives were invited in for tea – that Bilbo could not begrudge her a bit of snobby pride in her expertise.

"There now, they're not to be so frightened of, are they?" Lobelia flipped Frerin's bangs aside and kissed his forehead – a rare show of affection that was _only_ permitted at tea time. She scowled and nodded to Bilbo's cup. "Did you wash your hands? I swear I'll never get those fingerprints off my mother's china. That cup belonged to my great-great-grandmother, you know."

"Yes, I will be certain to take care, _Lobelia_." Grumpily Bilbo wiped his fingers on a handkerchief and made a show of polishing the cup. Lobelia nodded curtly in satisfaction.

"Oooh!" Frerin's eyes bugged as Lobelia set a rather large slice of cake in front of him. He cooed at the masterpiece, too enamored with the iced flowers to destroy them with his spoon.

"Hmph! Well, at least _someone_ has some manners." Lobelia refilled Frerin's teacup – a cheaper glass cup that she had no doubt painted herself, although Bilbo couldn't tell if the brown glops were rabbits or moles – and smiled when Frerin dobbed icing into the cup instead of honey.

"Oh, there he goes again." Bilbo rolled his eyes in frustration. "He'll never eat supper now, Lobelia."

"And why not?" she retorted. "Clearly you don't feed him enough as it is. Any strapping young lad would bolt down supper and midnightes _and_ everything in between."

Frerin straightened at the 'strapping young lad' part, and Bilbo raised one eyebrow to say_ 'Don't you take her flattery.'_

"All the same, I'm concerned about too many sweets," Bilbo said. "He doesn't grow like other fauntlings; he needs better nourishment."

"That's exactly what I said!" Lobelia lightly pinched Frerin's cheek, and he rubbed it in dismay. "Poor child; it's as if your horrible guardian never even cares."

Frerin inspected his icing until he found a glob that looked suspiciously like a mouse. With delicate precision he slicked it off the cake and set it onto the tablecloth.

"Badda!"

"Oh." Screwing up her face, Lobelia battered the purple glob until it was nothing more than a smear in her nice tablecloth. Bilbo pillowed his face in his hands and groaned.

Some heroes were _too_ self-confident.

* * *

"_Fía! Fía!"_

"_Hm?" Fíli turned from the pony he was shoeing and frowned. "Frerin, what have you got there?"_

"_Fia!" Elated, the eleven-year-old held out his jacket to display a wriggling mass of fur and tiny ears. "Bunnah!"_

"_Where did you get those?" Smiling softly, Fíli scooped one baby rabbit from the litter and held it up to his nose. "These can't be more than a few weeks old."_

"_Bunnah! Bunnah!" Frerin cheered._

_"What is it?" Kíli looked over from the stall he was mucking, and gladly tossed aside his shovel to take a peek. "Are those rabbits?"_

_"Frerin must have gone to the field alone. Did you remember to tag him this morning?"_

_Scowling, Kíli inspected the back of Frerin's shirt. "Mum must have forgotten this one. He could have been lost and we wouldn't have known until spring!"_

"_Well, we'll keep an eye out for him tomorrow. Maybe you should organize his wardrobe; make sure everything is embroidered."_

"_No one is going to check his stockings, Fee."_

"Y_ou know what I mean. Here, Frerin." Reluctantly Fíli handed the rabbit back. "Put those back where you found them. No doubt the mother will be looking for them."_

_Frerin sighed. "Nodah bunnah?"_

"_No, we can't keep them."_

_The child's eyes darted. "Madah oom?"_

"_What's he saying?" Kíli whispered. "Khuzdul, Frerin! Speak in Khuzdul."_

_Fíli ruffled Frerin's hair. "No, Frerin; you can't hide them in your room. Mum will find out."_

_The sigh was even deeper, and then Frerin brightened. "Amad daffah!"_

"_I can't understand a word of it!" Kíli whined._

"_He's going to ask Mum," Fíli muttered as Frerin marched triumphantly away._

_Hours later, Thorin stumped into the house to find two cooing nephews helping Frerin bottle-feed a squirming next of rabbits, while Dís looked proudly on. Thorin and Dwalin exchanged a glance, and the latter shook his head._

"_Don't ask me what happened."_

* * *

**A.N.** The Muses switched timelines around for this chapter so that the transition from 36 would flow smoother. Order of events: Present Quest, Timeline With Bilbo, last of all Timeline with Fíli and Kíli. Have some happiness and Lobelia Sacksville-Baggins. ;)

Favorite = Adopt a bunny raised by Fili and Kili.

Review = Lobelia chases out your house pests. (Unless it's wasps... she might need rescuing then... Follow = Rescue Lobelia from a baby wasp)


	40. His Penance or Mercy by Spirits Debated

**Warning: **Gruesome details in the italics. :( If that makes you uncomfortable, feel free to skip to the next scene. Brief summary of the italics: Dwalin remembers Frerin's last moments and why it cut him so deeply.

* * *

_His dark eyes pleaded for rescue, while his mouth gaped bloodily, teeth and tongue gouged away. His right hand lacked three fingers and the left hand was a pulp of crushed bone. His legs… his legs… Dwalin wavered for a moment, moaning in disgust. The muscles were slit from the ankle to thigh, and the kneecaps were gaping holes. His shoulders, his back, his arms which had once welcomed any embrace… all was useless flesh strung to bloodied bone. Even if the muscles were sutured together, he would never sit up on his own. _

_Two fingers, striped by the teeth of a warg, clawed at Dwalin's armor as the young prince cried. He hacked, straining to speak with a mouth that would never form words again. The plea in his eyes wrenched out the desperation of his heart._

_Please, let me live._

"_Hold still, laddie." _

_And with a sob in his throat and a coward's duplicity, Dwalin thrust a broken Orc blade through the prince's back. Frerin gasped and his hand twitched frantically, his head rocking as he tried to escape this new betrayal. Tears flooded his eyes and he squeezed them shut, shrieking high and soft. Dwalin drew him close and rested his forehead against Frerin's, weeping as blood dripped into his cheek. _

"_I'm sorry, laddie. I'm so sorry."_

_A final shudder, and the body was still. Tears had already frozen on Frerin's cheeks, and the flow of blood ceased at last. Dwalin set down the body, turning it as though Frerin could look into Mirrormere and flit away to the wonders of Aüle's land. _

"_Rest, laddie." He closed the prince's eyes, burying that last glimpse of despair. "It's over now."_

_For Frerin, it was over at last. Dwalin's torment had only begun. When his own lad of forty-two shied away from his touch, he knew the Fates had meted out what he deserved._

_He never expected forgiveness._

* * *

(TA 2916, 17 years before the Quest. Frerin is 25)

"Not dead, please, not dead…."

How Bilbo hated those words. He held the fevered lad, watching snow fall outside the window, and tried not to cringe when Frerin thrashed. _Dwarven Fever_ the apothecary had called it, as he handed Bilbo a small dark vial.

"Use it if the sickness runs its course. It'll be kinder for him. Only the strong-hearted survive."

Such was the disease passing down from the Firebeards of the Blue Mountains. Red had been contagious, though he hadn't known until he fainted two days after reaching the Shire. Being "half-whatever", he had recovered within a week. Frerin had succumbed with terrifying swiftness.

"The vial will release him from the pain," the apothecary had told Bilbo calmly. "Numbs the nerves and brain, and eventually he'll drop off to sleep and wake in paradise."

Bilbo had given the vial to Red, who had vindictively fed it to a fish and then buried it in the back yard. The two sat in the gloom of Frerin's room now, waiting for that dreadful moment when the fever either broke, or claimed another life.

"Why's he keep saying that?" Red asked softly. "Why's he so afraid of dying?"

"I think it's his family," Bilbo murmured. "They died when he was very young."

Frerin tossed his head back, twisting out of Bilbo's hands. Red caught him before he could roll off the bed. Frerin whimpered sharply, his eyes squeezed shut.

"_Please!"_

"He's not supposed to be afraid," Red whispered.

_I'll have to tell Lobelia,_ Bilbo thought in distress. The sickness had come on so suddenly; yesterday afternoon Frerin had been laughing with him in the garden, but by evening the fever had left him too weak to lift a hand.

"It claims the very young and the very old." The apothecary's sympathy had been more than Bilbo could stand. "If he has family, Mister Baggins, now is the time to contact them. They'll want to bury him proper."

"They won't bury him," Bilbo whispered too softly for Red to hear. "He will not die."

"Bilbo?" Red asked uncertainly. He looked too young, like the orphaned bairn he hid inside.

"Nothing." Bilbo shook his head. "Tea. I should put some tea on." And compose a note to Lobelia, assuming the sickness would not run through by morning.

"There's no peppermint," Red mumbled. "And I used up the blackberry."

"No matter." Laboriously Bilbo rose and wove his way to the kitchen. His feet felt weighted and his soul heavier still. For long, ragged moments he leaned over the sink, unable to summon the resolve to fill the kettle.

_Frerin, sick and possibly dying. Frerin, bright eyes crusted shut. Frerin, unable to swallow because – _

Gasping, Bilbo splashed cold water over his face and looked out the window. The clouds had parted, allowing a patch of starlight to gleam against new snow.

"Look, I … I know this is odd coming from a Hobbit," Bilbo said quietly, for if no one else, then the stars must surely listen to him tonight. "I know nothing about Aüle, or Dwarven culture, or anything for that matter, but … well, if Frerin is … one of your children…." He paused, feeling foolish. "Look after him."

Fearsome clouds, burdened with heavy wet flakes, covered the stars. Red stepped in and wordlessly filled the kettle, setting it over the fire. There was only chamomile left in the stores (Frerin had mixed up the labels again and they'd only bought chamomile the last trip to market) and so Bilbo sipped marginally, dreading the thought that he should fall asleep and miss Frerin's last breaths. Red drained his cup three times and not once remembered to add sugar.

Dawn rose with the stillness of a wintry land, but a stray sunbeam trickled through the window to tickle Frerin's nose. The resulting snort woke Bilbo from a doze, and he nearly cried in relief when he saw two dark slits watching him.

"Bihbo?"

The morning was bright, and death would not find them yet.

* * *

(Present Quest, TA 2941)

If Bilbo had thought Frerin was too ill for any more unwanted surprises, the lad routed his suspicions at once. One brown eye peeked open when the door creaked, and then immediately squeezed shut again. Bilbo hushed Dwalin and motioned for him to wait.

"Let me talk to him first."

Fingering his axe, Dwalin looked prepared to hustle back into the cold. He nodded curtly and sat on an old boot chest, keeping out of sight. Quietly Bilbo pattered into the central room.

Fíli and Kíli were gone, doubtlessly tucked into one of the tiny rooms with a roaring hearth and sealed glass panes. Dori was the only Dwarf present. He pointed to Frerin, winked at Bilbo, and held a finger to his lips. Gathering up Ori's knitting and Nori's medley of lockpins and metal scraps, he tiptoed down the hall.

Alone at last, though Bilbo wished he could muffle the room lest Fíli and Kíli overhear. What was to be done must be dealt with at once, before the others returned. He knelt by Frerin and gently prodded his shoulder.

Brown eyes lit open at once. "Bilbo!" Frerin whispered excitedly.

"There now, I knew you were pretending." Bilbo's tone was light, but his touch was concerned as he traced Frerin's brow for fever. Frerin leaned into his guardian's hand, sighing.

"I thought…." He gasped sharply and forced out the words. "I thought you were gone."

"Never!" Bilbo denied sharply. "Frerin, I would never leave you there."

"No, _gone_." Frerin trembled as he laid his head down. "You vanished, and then your shadow stopped moving. I thought you were dead, and then Bifur…." He lowered his eyes, tears of shame gathering. "I stopped fighting after that. I'm sorry."

"Frerin, Frerin!" Bilbo whispered, aghast. "You're not to blame for anything!"

A tear slipped down Frerin's nose. "I waited. I was so sure that – that they would come – and they didn't. Azog pulled out my sword and I thought he would cut off my hands, and they – no one…." Breaking off, Frerin muffled a sob in his hands. Bilbo comforted him soundlessly. When at last he could speak, Frerin implored, "Did they look for me?"

"_Frerin_." Bilbo shook his head, angry at the lad's doubts, and at Azog and Thorin and everything that had torn apart an untroubled soul. "As soon as they were freed they spent every hour searching for you."

Frerin nodded in acceptance. "Bifur's gone," he whispered hoarsely. "He was the only one that defended me … _before_." In times past-past, when he had needed someone to care about him the most. "Bilbo, he was my friend! How am I going to speak to Bombur now? If I hadn't been afraid to –"

"Frerin, stop!" Bilbo commanded. He waited until Frerin's protests stuttered to a halt. "Frerin, none of this was your fault. Even if you hadn't been in the barrel with Bifur, he would have defended you nonetheless. He would have done the same for Fíli or Kíli, or even a clumsy burglar. _Frerin_." He squeezed the lad's shoulder, praying that the lad would accept it. "He valued your life. Don't be angry with yourself for that."

Blinking rapidly, Frerin clutched Bilbo's hand. He shivered with trepidation. "Bilbo, I think I said something awful in front of Thorin. I wasn't clear in the head. I think… please tell me I didn't!"

Bilbo sighed heavily. "Frerin, they know."

Frerin shuddered, his worst fears realized. "How many?" he asked desperately.

"Thorin and Balin and Dwalin. As far as I know, no one else understood the argument."

"Bilbo, what am I going to do?" Like a panicked hare, Frerin braced to run. "I can't stay here. I can't tell them –"

"You don't have to tell them anything." Awkwardly Bilbo admitted, "I filled in the blanks. They would have known sooner or later, and it was better that they heard it all at once."

"_Bilbo_," Frerin moaned.

"I'm sorry." Bilbo patted his hand, wishing he could do more than tend Frerin's frayed nerves. "But you know that none of this can be fixed if they are left in the dark. Your memories aren't going away – in fact, they are only growing worse. If … if something happens again, they need to understand."

"I can't talk to them!" Frerin said raggedly. "Bilbo, you don't understand! I was forty-eight when I died. I'm only forty-two! Bilbo, my whole life I've dreamed of turning forty-nine; as if this nightmare will end if I can just make it past winter. Now _they_ know, and – and – Bilbo, I can't see Dwalin as my Adad and Thorin as my uncle when –"

"Frerin, listen to me," Bilbo said calmly. "Whatever happened in the past, it's _over_. They've changed – you've seen as much. You have changed, too. What the Dwarves were in the past…." He shook his head. "Frankly, I don't think that exists any longer." He clenched Frerin's hand for emphasis. "Now, your father is waiting out there. He remembers Azanulbizar as clearly as you do, and he won't speak unless you invite him in. He's ashamed, Frerin, and I doubt he ever recovered from what happened."

Frerin would not respond.

"Will you at least speak to him?" Bilbo urged. He paused, knowing he was about to be cruel. "Or will you have your revenge by shutting him out like Thorin did to you?"

A shudder ran through the rail-thin shoulders. "Bilbo." Heaving a sob, Frerin buried his face in his hands. Bilbo sat back on his heels and waited. At last Frerin nodded.

"Dwalin," Bilbo called softly. There was an immediate scuffle and Dwalin appeared in the doorway. He looked from the crumpled bairn to Bilbo, questioning the wisdom of entering. Bilbo mutely nodded. He crept out of the way, allowing Dwalin to kneel in front of his son.

With a shaking, deep breath, Dwalin carded his fingers through Frerin's bangs. "Laddie?"

Frerin's fingers inched away from his eyes. The bandages streaking his face looked like a twisted crown, and for a moment Bilbo had the impression that the lad was more ashamed to see Dwalin than angry.

"You didn't give me a chance." The whispered accusation slipped free in a flood of silent tears. "I could have lived."

"I know, lad. I'm sorry." Dwalin's voice broke and Bilbo turned around, realizing too late that he was the worst intruder. "I didn't want you to be trapped in such pain."

He switched to Khuzdul, voicing explanations or apologies that only kin would understand. Every now and then Frerin gave a muffled sob or responded in the Dwarven tongue. Bilbo wanted to stop up his ears or leave the room, but he dared not twitch. At length Dwalin's voice grew calmer and Frerin's less agitated, until they both fell into silence. Bilbo's foot spasmed and he clenched his hands, irritably hushing his twitchy limbs.

"What happened in the past… I can't fix it," Dwalin said hoarsely. "But someday… when you're grown and have a wee bairn of your own, maybe you'll understand my foolishness. When that day comes… can you ever forgive me?"

Frerin whimpered, and Bilbo dared a peek. Wincing, the lad flung his arms around Dwalin's neck, sobbing as he was drawn close.

"I do forgive you, Adad! I forgive – I forgi – I love you." Wretchedly he buried his face in Dwalin's neck and wept. Those massive hands that could have dealt so much pain were raised to stroke the boy's head, and a tear plopped down onto the russet collar.

Bilbo grabbed the opportunity and tiptoed away. Perhaps he would have a chat with Dori in one of those toasty, cramped rooms. He was not needed here any longer.


	41. The Hand That Cut You Down

_When Thorin realized his baby brother was too dull for riddles and too slow for sword matches, he found entertainment in the amusing reactions he could gain. Frerin was frightened easily, and often all it took was one roar from his brother to send him skittering to his mother's arms. _

_Over time, Thorin grew more creative. He knew he could cut a rope on the mine harnesses, leave Frerin dangling for hours, and the pathetic twit wouldn't speak above a whisper for a week. Frerin tied knots in all of Thorin's clothes in retaliation, and Thorin locked him in his own wardrobe. He waited until the outraged shouts died to muted sobs, and the crying whimpered into plaintive pleas before he walked down to supper, leaving his brother in the dark. _

_When their mother died, Thorin took it out on Frerin. Only this time, he was too bitter to call it a 'prank'. A bur under the saddle earned Frerin a twisted ankle, but Thrain railed on Thorin for his foolhardiness - especially so soon after Erebor's queen had been lost. Frerin was too sick with grief to gloat, but Thorin saw the satisfaction in his eyes. Furious, he took the candle and all but one blanket, and pretended concern when Frerin's eyes and nose puffed from a cold. _

_They hated each other. _

_No one interfered._

_Until Fíli and Kíli met their new baby brother, and cherished him like he was their Arkenstone. The boys pranked one another endlessly, much to their mother's frustration, but they never teased Frerin. Oh, he would trouble them needlessly, running off to the docks or tugging off all his clothes so they would chase him like a pink rabbit through the snow, but they never raised a hand or unkind word against him._

_Thorin wished his own memories could have been so pure. Maybe his nephews would then have had a second uncle, and Dís would not cling so tightly to her youngest._

* * *

(TA 2916, 25 years before the Quest. Frerin is 17)

Frerin never responded well to pranks. Red tried it when the lad was still a fourteen-summer, shivering fauntling, and Lobelia smacked him over the head with his own knapsack when she found Frerin sitting at the base of the hayloft, shivering, flinching at Red's outstretched hands.

"I just gave him a push," Red said weakly, looking at the rope tied above the rafters. "I swing up there all the time. I didn't think he'd freak out."

Afraid of heights, indeed, but more frightened of the hand of betrayal. Red was reconciled soon enough, and a cup of hot peppermint tea soothed Frerin's nerves, but the not-quite-Dwarf never made the same mistake again.

Pranks were off limits when Frerin was involved.

Good-natured fun was common in the Shire, of course. Fauntling lads tugged the lasses' braids, and every now and then a toad was slid into someone's bed, but they were all harmless jokes. Frerin never quite understood them.

"What did I do?" He begged for answers, mortified and hunched in misery as Bilbo lifted him out of the lily pond.

"It was just a tease," Tomhold said worriedly. "Hey, you're okay, aren't you? The water's not deep."

"I think Frerin's had enough adventures for the morning," Bilbo said pointedly. He drew the not-yet-tween away, leading him home. Sopping puddles trailed behind them, and Frerin sniffled.

"There now, I'm sure Tomhold meant nothing ill," Bilbo assured. He hesitated, newly concerned. "Were you injured? Bruised elbows, cuts….?"

Frerin shook his head. "I thought – I thought he was my friend!"

"Come, lad," Bilbo said readily, "Even Red teases you sometimes. Tomhold doesn't understand that some things frighten you more than others."

"M'not scared!" Frerin said too emphatically. He scrubbed his sleeve over his eyes, shivering. Softer, he mumbled, "I thought he'd hold me down."

"Frerin!" Aghast, Bilbo could not help his exclamation. "That would be cruel!"

Hesitating, Frerin slowly nodded. "I don't know why I thought of it. I had … some dream. I thought … I thought it was real for a moment."

"These dreams." Bilbo shook his head. Someday he would have to ask Frerin to write one or two down. The lad never spoke them aloud. "Well, not to worry: Tomhold would never intentionally hurt you, nor would any of the other lads or lasses."

That didn't mean worms wouldn't be found in his boots or kittens in the teacups sooner or later, but Frerin would eventually grow used to the gentler pranks. Kæzog, however, brought the fiercest alarm. All he had to do was slam open a door.

"Baruk Khazâd!" The knob caught Frerin's tooth as the white crow's too-cheerful bellow filled the bookshop, and Bilbo spent the next hour simultaneously lecturing Kæzog while comforting a panicked Frerin.

"It was just a laugh," Kæzog complained, rolling his eyes. "What, Dwarves can shout and I can't?"

"You broke his tooth!" Bilbo shouted more ferociously than necessary.

Kæzog licked his upper level of teeth, where six had been snapped into points. "The kit's a wimp. Tell me about broken mouths after you've brawled twelve goblins without someone biting a finger off."

"_Out!_"

One more instance when his temper had gotten the best of him, and Bilbo felt as shaken as Frerin for hours. Red popped by later, took one look at Frerin's swollen lip, and stomped right back out again. Later Bilbo heard that he had pounced on a poised Kæzog, and the two had rolled straight into a dung heap and proceeded to pummel one another to the brink of sanity.

"Ironfist blood, that one," a Dwarf lass selling silver belts said with disgust. "They fight with Orcs and Men alike, those ne'er-do-good rabble."

"Ironfists, Orcs, and meddlesome Dwarves," Bilbo muttered scathingly. "Once I was a Baggins with a good reputation." He looked at Frerin, who was curled under a book stand with a faded text on Sindarin, and shrugged. "Well, there's no reason every reputable Baggins can't have a little adventure."

* * *

(Present Quest, TA 2941)

Kíli nearly fell into the wall when Frerin spoke to him that afternoon.

"Wait, you're up? You're supposed to be resting! Oin, tell him to lie down this instant!"

Sighing, Frerin crossly folded his arms. "I'm not dead."

"No, but you will be if you hurt yourself again – Elladan said so. Frerin!" Frustrated when words did no good, Kíli tried prodding him towards one of the rooms. Frerin irritably slapped his hands away.

"Thorin gave you a sword." He swallowed waveringly and lifted his chin in resolve. "Teach me."

Flabbergasted, Kíli nearly tripped again. "Teach – no! No swords, Frerin. Next time there's a battle, you're staying inside." He accented the order by jabbing his finger into Frerin's chest, and earned another slap on the arm. "Ow! Fíli, he's hitting me!"

"What's going on?" Fíli looked between them, casually flummoxed. "Frerin, is everything all right?"

"Someone has to teach me to use a sword." Frerin scuffed one foot, his unwillingness clear.

"Is this because of what happened?" Fíli asked softly. He and Kíli exchanged a guilty look. "Frerin, Oin's right; you should be resting. I promise, nothing can find us here."

"Oh, would one of you just listen!" Frerin howled. "I don't want to be helpless again! There, do you understand? I don't want to sit by idly while you're killed!"

Kíli began to speak and Fíli stopped him. "No, he's right." He plucked up Kíli's sword and held it out expectantly. Reluctantly Kíli took the hilt.

"Just a few lessons for starters," Fíli urged. "At least he can wave it around like Bilbo."

"Well, that's kind," Bilbo muttered.

"It's all right," Fíli said, forcing optimism as he clapped Frerin's shoulder. He stared into his brother's eyes, searching for discomfort or exhaustion or anything that would qualify for grounding the injured prince until next summer. Hiding his troubled thoughts, Fíli nodded. "You'll be fine."

"Fíli," Kíli hissed agitatedly. A conversation filled with jerks of the head, hand motions and facial expressions passed before Kíli rolled his eyes and lashed out to catch the lighter broadbeam that Fíli tossed. "All right, but only for a few minutes. Oin says you're not to overexert yourself."

"He's fine," Fíli repeated. He lounged against the table, watching Frerin keenly.

Kíli handed the sword to his younger brother, who lifted it awkwardly. Bilbo covered his eyes in despair. The blade which Fíli so easily flipped around seemed to weigh as much as an axe in Frerin's thin hands.

"Isn't there something lighter for him? A knife, or …." Or maybe a wooden stick, since anything heavier would surely slip through his fingers.

"He's fine," Fíli insisted grumpily.

"Lift it a bit," Kíli urged. "Higher, Frerin!"

Frerin braced his knees, bending backwards to raise the blade to eye level. Thorin walked in just as Kíli was rubbing his forehead in dismay. Frerin's eyes were clenched shut, both arms straining as sweat trickled down his forehead. Wordlessly Thorin braced Frerin's wrist and snatched one of Fíli's long knives.

"I don't need it. I don't need your help!" Frerin snapped.

"Frerin." Thorin offered the knife, the thin blade gleaming enticingly in a stray beam of sunlight. Reluctantly Frerin dropped his stance and let Thorin take the sword away.

"Fine," Frerin grumbled, grabbing the long knife. Thorin reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder, and neither Fíli nor Kíli missed their brother's flinch.

"Frerin, I'm sorry," Thorin said quietly. "I never knew."

Frerin's eyes slid away and he stepped out of Thorin's reach. He raised the long knife, his stance a little more assured as though he understood the blade. "I need to practice."

Thorin's jaw set and he swiveled away. Fíli followed him.

"You can't let him use those blades for training. They're off balance. The only reason I carry them is because –"

"They're inherited. I know." Thorin stopped for a moment, wistfully looking over his shoulder. "One of your kin forged them. Frerin will know how to use them."

Fíli watched, quietly observing and cataloguing everything. "Why were you shouting this morning?" he whispered. "Why did Frerin blame you? You've never abandoned any of us, Uncle."

Thorin straightened and the nostalgia left his eyes. "Frerin was not raised like you and your brother. He knows nothing of loyalty."

"There was more to it, wasn't there?" Fíli prodded. "Whatever this is, Kíli needs to know._ I_ need to know. We're not children any longer."

It struck Bilbo how naïve the lads were, and yet they were brilliant. Thorin hedged, his eyes hollow windows that had been charred by something worse than dragon fire. At last he pulled Frerin's book from his pocket.

"Read this at your own discretion. When you feel the time is right, you may share it with Kíli. Tell no one else."

Bewildered, Fíli took the journal and tucked it into his coat. His presence unwanted, Thorin abruptly stalked out. Bilbo paced around the room, biting one nail and watching as Frerin interchanged between ducking and meeting Kíli's strikes. Fíli studied them for a while, occasionally offering suggestions, until he was able to settle into a chair unnoticed. Withdrawing the book, he fingered it thoughtfully before opening to the first page.

That was the last they heard from Fíli until the next morning.

* * *

"At last you awaken!"

"We knew you were awake, of course."

"But we swore we would not disturb you."

"And now you are aware and walking, which is far grander."

"Grander indeed!"

Bilbo rubbed his forehead. "If they pester him any further, he'll be begging for unconsciousness."

"Ah, Master Hobbit!" Elladan called. "How fare you among these bumbling trolls?"

"These warf rats with no finer schemes than flower chains and daisies," Elrohir added.

"Not in the mood," Fíli muttered from the chair. His brow was creased and his eyes somber as he turned a page.

"Oh, git out of here, you infamous tree herders," Dwalin rumbled. He glowered at Elladan, who raised one eyebrow in amusement and resorted to snickering with his brother across the room.

Awkwardly Dwalin clapped Frerin's shoulder. The lad tried not to shuffle, but Bilbo could see his uneasy twitches.

"How much has changed," the Hobbit whispered to himself.

Further change barged into the door seconds later in the form of one lanky, black-clad weasel. Bilbo groaned and covered his eyes. The weedy man had visited only once before, and that was to offer the Master's greetings to his sordid gaggle of guests. He had been as glad to vacate the inn as the Dwarves had been to see him leave.

"The Master wishes to convey his kindest greetings," Alfrid said in a grumpy, nasal tone, "But he can't be troubled to come by today. It's the gout, you see. Oh, he humbly apologizes, of course."

"Tell your master that we need none of his good wishes," Thorin retorted. "He promised us supplies and weapons."

"All in good time," Alfrid said pleasantly. "After all, you haven't told us how you intend to vanquish the beast." He slunk to the window and flung it open, jabbing at the Lonely Mountain. "That mountain has been belching smoke since yesterday afternoon. What say you now about a live dragon?"

Thorin strode to the window and Bilbo's heart fairly dropped. A thick, dank cloud surrounded the Lonely Mountain, writhing and festering like Mirkwood's sickness.

"Bah! It's just a storm." Oin dismissed.

"That storm spewed fire this morning!" Alfrid retorted. "The whole town saw it."

"The entire town?" Elladan questioned.

Alfrid shifted uncomfortably. "Well, most of the children did."

"Of course, most of the children," Elrohir echoed.

"Someone saw it this morning!" Alfrid insisted. "Now, what are you going to do about it?"

"Perhaps escort Alfrid Lickspittle out the door?" Elrohir suggested to his brother.

"Indeed, his visits are so welcome that I think we shall perish without them."

"You think this is a joke?" Alfrid spluttered. "That dragon could kill us all!"

"But he won't," Bilbo said quickly. He looked around at the unamused faces. "Well, just because he's awake doesn't mean he's interested in burning a town. He'd have to leave the Lonely Mountain for that."

More blank looks were received. Bilbo sighed.

"Look, he's a _dragon_, isn't he? Dragons are territorial. They don't pick on ponds or bargemen unless they're feeling particularly cranky, and that won't happen unless they feel threatened. Am I the only one who knows about dragon folklore?"

"It appears so," Thorin drawled.

"Maybe..." Frerin started to speak, glanced at Thorin and immediately closed his mouth. Thorin's jaw tightened.

"You've read about dragons, Frerin. What say you?"

The conflict between awe and resentment brought together the faces of past and present. Frerin had never looked more experienced… or younger.

"Dragons have internal fire. They don't … rot when dying." Frerin cringed, struggling to find the right words. "They… burn through themselves, sort of."

"Their fires become their own pyre," Thorin summarized. He looked towards the mountain in satisfaction. "Gandalf first saw smoke over the mountain a year ago. That old worm has burned his last village."

"Who are you?" Alfrid piped in, peering at Bilbo for the first time.

"That's our burglar," Oin said touchily. "You've never seen a Hobbit before?"

"I know you!" Alfrid sneered, his beady eyes narrowing. "You were with that freakish bastard child."

Dwalin lurched forward, and only Nori's hand kept him from pummeling the smirking face. "If I hear you insult my boy again….."

"You mean Red?" Bilbo guessed. His mind went back to a greasy haired kitchen boy and a furious, not-quite-Dwarven protector. "That was you?"

Alfrid's attention had been drawn to Dwalin, however, and consequentially to the smaller Dwarf at his side. "You. You're that scrawny twit, aren't you?"

Frerin's eyebrows drew together. He slipped out from Dwalin's hand, looking so much smaller compared to Alfrid. "I remember you," he whispered.

Suddenly he spun around and punched Alfrid in the gut. The weasely man scrunched into himself with a muffled squeak.

"Frerin!" Bilbo yelped.

Gasping at his own daring, Frerin instantly ducked into the throng.

"You … you …!" Alfrid's face burned with indignation. "The Master will hear about this!"

"Aye, and I'm sure he'll be interested to know that you insulted the princes of Durin!" Dwalin retorted.

"Be gone, you carnivorous vulture!" Gloin snapped.

"Beware, your welcome has worn thin!" Alfrid snarled. "There are others who are interested in the business of Dwarves. Mark my words, your people would do well to leave Laketown."

"Or what?" Bilbo challenged quietly. "Is that a threat?"

Spewing a curse, Alfrid lurched on his heel and slunk outside. Fíli and Kíli entered at that moment and they looked after him, perturbed.

"What did we miss?" Kíli asked.

Fíli's eyes lashed instantly to Frerin, and it was impossible for Bilbo to miss the sudden sobriety in the elder brother's gaze. "Did he hurt you?"

Gloin laughed and clapped Frerin's back heartily, nearly spilling him into Dwalin. "Not in the least! It seems Durin's blood is finally waking in our young prince."

"Side!" Frerin squeaked, clutching his midsection.

Dwalin roughly pushed Gloin away. "Easy on him."

"Are you all right?" Kíli pestered. Easy light-heartedness still widened his eyes with innocence, and Bilbo suspected he knew nothing of the truth.

Frerin nodded stiffly. "Nothing's torn."

"Good." Elladan waved for his brother. "Come, Ro. Let us see if this 'Master of Laketown' has enough wits to match his clever tongue."

Bows strung and in hand, the twins marched into the cold and slammed the door behind them. Kíli took the opportunity to thaw himself by the toasty fire.

Dwalin hesitantly patted Frerin's shoulder. "It's been a long morning, son. Better rest that side of yours."

Frerin silently nodded. He rubbed the ache – a twisting welt that would still have been a septic, gaping hole if not for the combined efforts of Elrond's sons. Even now his heart thudded too fast at times, and he grew short of breath after a brief training session.

Bilbo watched the two interact, and the tension nearly had him screaming every Tookish obscenity about how fathers and sons should be less entrenched in the past. He took a deep breath and held it, forcing the Baggins side to regain control.

Fíli offered distraction by tapping Bilbo's shoulder. "Can I speak with you alone?"

Gratefully the Hobbit nodded. He followed Fíli to the far room, which was never occupied thanks to a broken window and gutted hearth. Clutching his coat around himself, Bilbo shivered.

"What seems to be the matter?"

Fíli gingerly sat on the dust laden bed. "It's about Frerin," he said slowly.

"Oh." Bilbo quickly seated himself.

"I read everything." Fíli was never one to rush into a conversation. Every word was pondered carefully, until Bilbo wished he would jump to the point. "The diary was difficult to understand at times. I can't tell where his nightmares were and where the … where the …."

"He calls them his dream-memories," Bilbo offered.

"Ah." Fíli shrugged uncertainly. "Some of the writing was as surreal and ridiculous as Kíli's dreams."

"But…?" Bilbo prodded.

Fíli sighed and looked down, self-consciously rubbing his legs as though to protect them from Frerin's memories. "Are they real? Is everything in that book…. Did it truly happen?"

"Yes." Bilbo spoke with all honesty. "It is true."

"And Thorin was his brother." Fíli's eyes blazed quietly, even as he reasoned the past with the now.

"Many things were different back then." So Bilbo told himself these days.

Fíli shook his head. "They shouldn't have been. If I had treated Kíli that way…." He rubbed one hand roughly against the other. "I would sooner Azog killed us both than to see him – _tortured_."

Bilbo silently nodded.

Wearily Fíli carded his hair back. "Bilbo, what must I do? You know Frerin more than any of us. How can I help him?"

"Well… his trust is not easily gained," Bilbo said hesitantly.

"I haven't told Kíli," Fíli assured. "He doesn't need to know – not yet. And there's no question that I will protect Frerin with my life. I swear Azog will never lay a hand on him again. But what can I do about these fears of his? How do you help him? What has he taught you?"

"I… suppose he's taught me that ... a kind heart and a softly spoken word will calm even where Orcs have ravaged." Bilbo smiled faintly, remembering how quickly a Dwarfling had clung to a harried Hobbit. "He does trust you, Fíli; never doubt that."

"But he doesn't believe I can protect him." The lad was brutally honest with himself.

"No," Bilbo admitted uneasily. "I don't think Frerin trusts anyone that far. Death is very real to him."

"I wouldn't let him be tortured," Fíli swore.

Bilbo shook his head in dismay. "We couldn't protect him this last time."

Defeated, Fíli bowed his head. "Bilbo, I need you to help me. I can't fix him, but I won't leave him to suffer alone. He's my _brother_."

"Of course he is!" Bilbo agreed. "You both have the same mother, and the love that you and Kíli have shown him…." He nodded in satisfaction. "You're truly his family."

"Tell me what to do," Fíli implored. "Whatever it takes, I will ensure he dies comfortably of old age, with at least thirteen bairns, and an obnoxious air that will drive his brothers and uncle to madness."

Bilbo took a moment to digest the image, and then joined Fíli in laughter.

* * *

Favorite = Throw a pie at Alfrid's face.

Review = Enjoy (or endure) a one hour session in swords training under Kíli's tutelage.


	42. Do You Think I'm Scared

I guess I've been writing angst for too long when I try to read a normal book and find myself criticizing an author's action sequence. :/ They just don't write hurt/comfort like they do in fanfiction...

**Welcome to the 42nd chapter, coinciding with Frerin's age of 42 years old. Have a bit of Thorin's past...**

**P.S. **Don't use this chapter as a reference for "what to do for hypothermia or stuck in the snow" scenarios. Thorin doesn't know what he's doing!

* * *

(Frerin's Past-Past, TA 2793. Thorin is 47, Frerin is 42.)

_Twenty-three years could not bring the Dwarves comfort after the dragon's carnage. Winter hardened the ground like an empty purse poisoned Thór's heart. Ever more Thorin doubted his grandfather's reasoning, and long nights were spent with __Dís__ listening and Frerin hacking at a bit of wood while Thorin wondered about their future._

_The Blue Mountains offered them resources, but every winter there was not enough. The Dwarves were despised by the Men who originally inhabited the mountains. Food was priced double for the refugees, and the traders cheated them at every turn. The settlement was established slowly, the Dwarves' resolve growing every spring, but stubbornness would not fill empty bellies._

"_You don't even know how to use a bow."_

_Thorin turned briskly, two hours of complaining destroying what little patience he had. "Frerin, what did I tell you before we left? Shut up, keep up, and don't get in the way."_

"_You're not king yet," Frerin mumbled. _

_Clenching his fists, Thorin concentrated on his promise not to shout at his brother for a full day. It was Frerin's birthday and Dís wanted it to be special. Before Thrain had prodded his sons out the door __Dís __had made Thorin swear he would be kind. That meant no shouting, no demeaning sarcasm, and no ignoring Frerin. Hence Thorin had spent two hours listening to his brother complain while they sloughed through thigh deep snow, searching for game that had fled to warmer regions._

"_Mountain goats should be here," Frerin said though chattering teeth. "One of the traders said that –"_

"_I know," Thorin finally snapped. "I have hunted before, Frerin. Now be quiet. You're scaring away everything within two leagues."_

_Sullenly Frerin clacked his jaw shut. He pulled his swamping coat closer, the worn, patched fur doing little to trap body heat. He was simply too skinny and small. Why had Father sent him along? Thorin was perfectly capable of hunting on his own!_

_Frerin sighed. "Thorin?"_

"_By Aüle, what is it now?" Thorin whirled on his heel and the thin sparrow cringed away. Irked by his anger as much as by Frerin, Thorin forced himself to speak more calmly. "If this is anything about the snow, your wet feet, or –"_

"_It's not!" Frerin broke in quickly. Frustrated, he pointed to the landscape. "I found deer tracks."_

_Thorin stepped into the path and pushed Frerin away._

"_I know how to track. I know how to track!" Frerin whined. Thorin ignored him._

"_It's elk," he grunted._

"_Fine. It has horns! Can we go now?"_

_Smirking, Thorin led the way. The trail brought them to the higher slopes, where ice coated the rocks and the wind shrieked around them. Thorin braced his hood around his ears while Frerin scrambled for sound footing. Wet boots, indeed. Thorin stomped agitatedly, knowing that it was useless. Feeling would not return to his toes until they returned home at nightfall. Frerin would just have to get used to the cold._

_A 'crack' behind them made Thorin jump. "What are you doing?" _

"_I didn't do anything," Frerin called back. Under his breath he added, "It's not always my fault, you big ox."_

_Thorin pretended not to hear. "Well, keep close."_

"_Not like I have a choice," was the softer retort._

"_Would you stop that?"_

_Thorin never did hear a reply. There was a 'whump' of crushed snow, a rattling of shale and an even sharper crack behind him. Swearing, he spun to face his brother. "What did you do this time?"_

_Instantly Thorin froze._

_Frerin lay awkwardly in the snow, one leg stretched behind him, the other missing. His face was white and strained as he whispered, "I didn't mean to."_

"_Frerin!" Sliding down, Thorin swiftly assessed his brother. He searched the snow where the leg had vanished. There was a crevice slashed into the mountain, perhaps a foot wide and twelve feet long. Ice and snow had hidden the trap and Thorin must have stepped right over it._

_"S-something's__ wrong!" Frerin clenched his teeth and whimpered sharply. "Thorin, it hurts!"_

"_D__on't move." Rapidly Thorin dug around his brother's thigh, searching for blood or closing ice that could crush his brother's leg. He was relieved to see that the only obstruction was the rapid swelling in Frerin's thigh. _

"_Hold on," Thorin warned as he grabbed Frerin under the arms._

"_Wait, what are you –?" _

_The question broke off in a scream as Thorin yanked his brother free. Frerin's eyes rolled back and he slumped against Thorin. _

"_Frerin?" Thorin swore and shook his brother. Frerin's head lolled and Thorin quickly checked his breathing. The boy's lungs stuttered with phlegm, but he breathed steady. There was nothing more to blame than the sickness that had passed through town a couple weeks earlier. There was no swelling on the head, and the only serious matter was Frerin's leg. That alone curdled Thorin's stomach. The bone had snapped near the hip, twisting the foot grotesquely._

"_You can't do anything halfway, can you?" Thorin muttered. "You always have to make trouble for me."_

_He braced his hands under Frerin's narrow shoulders and bony knees, trying to lift the boy without jostling him too much. Even unconscious, Frerin moaned. _

"_Sh!" Thorin hushed quickly. "Don't talk. Just …." He was arguing with an inert brother. __Dís __was going to kill him._

"_Oin, what do I do?" Thorin whispered as he searched the white landscape. _

_Shelter. Warmth. Food for strength, and ale for cleansing wounds and numbing pain. Thorin had none of these._

"_Frerin, wake up," he murmured. "You always find something I overlook. Where do I go?"_

_His brother was silent. Cursing his own stubbornness, Thorin stumbled for home. The deepening gloom warned him that home might be too far away. A shrill wind picked up and icy particles spattered Thorin's ears. Shivering, he pulled up Frerin's hood. _

"_Foolish Father. What incited you to send him?"_

_Thorin searched the hills again. He knew how to find caves and inclines that would provide some shelter, and here and there a hunting shelter was already stocked with supplies and coal. Those were set far apart, however, and Frerin needed shelter now._

"_Of all things, you had to break your leg!" Thorin ranted. "You could have broken your arm, or even your ankle. I know how to set those. But no, you have to be difficult. You hate walking, so you find a way to make me to carry you. I should have brought __Dís __instead."_

_Thorin looked down at the blue nose and lowered Frerin carefully into the snow. He paused long enough to sweep off his coat and bundle it around the fragile limbs before scooping up his brother again, wincing as the younger groaned._

"_Just a few more miles."_

_Miles turned into hours. By the time Thorin stumbled into a frigid cave his feet were swollen inside his boots and Frerin had ceased to whimper. Thorin scanned briefly for wolves before settling his brother in the furthest corner of the cave. Immediately he bustled about, clattering wood into the fire pit and thanking Mahal that previous trappers had left the cave stocked with supplies. _

_Frerin twitched when warmth tickled his nose. Thorin had already warmed a skin of brandy over the fire, and he coaxed his brother to drink. Frerin spluttered when the alcohol touched his tongue. _

"_Adad says n'to," he mumbled._

"_He made an exception this time," Thorin said. "Drink."_

_Reluctantly Frerin swallowed. He gasped and shook his head, eyes watering at the burning sensation. "D'n wannit."_

_"Stop complaining and do as you're told."_

_Roe's eyes implored Thorin piteously, and he did what he knew best. Shut Frerin up and make him follow orders. The boy managed four swallows before fatigue made him cranky enough to push Thorin away._

"_Frerin, open your eyes." Thorin said agitatedly. "Frerin –"_

_It was no use. He would have to wait until his brother was coherent again. Frerin slumped back ridiculously, his mouth already ajar in a snore. Thorin snorted. The idiot couldn't hold his alcohol._

"_Sleep for a while, then."_

_He warmed himself for a few minutes, yanking off his frozen boots. They were soaked through and brittle with frost. By morning the leather would shrink two sizes. They would almost be small enough for Frerin by then. _

_Glancing back at his brother, Thorin knew he would be kinder to act now. He grabbed the brandy bottle and a chunk of cram. Might as well force him to eat while he was awake._

_Cautiously taking his brother's right boot, he held down the leg with his other hand and yanked._

_Frerin screeched as consciousness flooded him. He cried out for Thorin and pounded the floor, bewildered at the sudden pain. _

"_Frerin, it's all right! … Quiet!"_

_Gasping, the boy smeared his sleeve over his nose and looked back. "Thorin?"_

"_I had to take your boot off." Thorin tossed the boot into the furthest corner from the fire. Hopefully some of the leather would still be salvageable. "I'm removing the other."_

"_No, wait – don't touch it!" Frerin gurgled a cry as Thorin eased off the second boot, jostling his hurt leg. _

"_I'm sorry," Thorin said quietly. He retrieved a man's cloak from the supplies and spread it close to Frerin's feet. Cringing, he warned, "I need to bind your legs together."_

"_No, no, no," Frerin gasped. "No, you d-don't need to touch them. Thorin, I'm fine. I'm fine, please don't – Thorin!" He screamed as his legs were lifted and the cloak wrestled beneath them. Thorin worked quickly, wrapping both legs together and covering the feet before knotting the bundle sharply._

"_I can't set the bone," he said haggardly, wiping his brow as he finished. "We need Oin for that. But you can't move your legs."_

_Frerin sobbed and buried his nose in his sleeve. Grimacing at the gushing sound, Thorin tore a strip from his shirt and tossed it at his brother. _

"_Wipe your face off."_

"_J'st go away!"_

"_In this storm?" Thorin exclaimed. "Don't be ridiculous!" As if he could walk through a blizzard safely, let alone while carrying his brother. "And don't you dare blow your nose on my coat again."_

_Frerin snarled and pillowed his head in his arms. He squeezed his eyes shut, shivers accentuating the flush in his cheeks. Thorin sighed and sat carefully beside his brother. _

"_You need to eat something."_

"_M'not hungry."_

"_Frerin, eat something." He softened the cram with brandy and held it out. One murderous brown eye scalded him._

"_I'll get sick on your coat." 'Sick' was sounded more like a garbled 'thick', and Thorin suspected Frerin's past illness was returning. _

"_Dís __will make a new one."_

"_We can't afford it," Frerin mumbled. He buried his face again, twitching with pain. _

"_This is childish, Frerin!" Thorin shouted in frustration. "Do you want to die here?"_

"_Yes! Maybe I do!" Frerin snapped. His words were jarbled and Thorin fought down a smirk. "J'st let me die and go'way. S'not like you care, anyways."_

_Thorin sobered instantly. "I do care."_

_Frerin sullenly closed his eyes. "M'tired. Lemme sleep."_

_This time Thorin let him be. He carded his fingers through the bronze hair, watching Frerin's brow crease at the touch. "I do care, brother."_

_They were found the next morning. Oin set Frerin's leg and the boy slept in a drug-induced haze until they reached home. Thrain berated Thorin for travelling so far into the hills when a storm was approaching. Frerin was spared a lecture, but only because his father was too preoccupied to visit his room. __Dís __offered enough sympathy for both her brothers. _

_It was the worst birthday Frerin had suffered yet, and Thorin remembered countless disasters from before. He recalled __Dís__' scathing words and vowed he would make it up to his brother._

_One month later, they were fighting again._

_By Frerin's next birthday, Thorin had already forgotten his promise._

* * *

(Present Quest, TA 2941)

"Laddie, your uncle wants to talk to you."

Hidden behind a chair with his book, Bilbo was caught off guard when the conversation began. He carefully marked his page, holding his breath as Dwalin's heavy footsteps approached.

"Frerin." Thorin's voice was _too_ near. Immediately Bilbo slipped on the ring, sighing in relief when the world evaporated into shadows. He eased out and settled down across the room, watching the conversation anxiously.

Frerin took a deep breath. "Whatever needs to be said, do it quickly and get it over with." He viciously twisted a pick into the grooves of his boots, digging out a chunk of black, hardened mud.

"Frerin…." Thorin flexed his hands, lost for words.

Sighing, Frerin set the boot aside. He looked twice his age and equally weary as he stated tartly, "Let me guess: you're sorry, you didn't know, you would change it if you could, you won't let it happen again, you never meant any of it in the first place."

"Frerin!" Dwalin said in sharp warning.

Scowling, Frerin returned to his work. Thorin approached slowly and sat beside him. He pushed the pick aside, forcing Frerin to look at him.

"I do not ask your forgiveness. I only came to tell you I am sorry; that I was a brute and heartless, and I treated you ill. I cannot forgive the past. I only wish it did not carry into your future."

"Don't you dare give me your sympathy," Frerin growled. He jumped upright and his legs nearly crumpled before he regained his balance. "I didn't ask for your pity! I know what happened and I know what my future holds, and I'm not afraid to face it. You're only holding yourself back!"

"Dwalin, leave!" Thorin snapped. He towered over Frerin and the younger braced himself like a yapping puppy. Only when the door slammed behind them did Thorin relent.

"I offer you no pity," he said quietly. "Only a promise. Azog will not touch you again."

Frerin scoffed. "I don't need your _promises_, Thorin. No – don't talk. You've had a hundred and forty-two years to do that. Look, I learned something in Azanulbizar. I can't trust _anyone_ to protect me. That's fine; I can live with it. Just do what you're best at and look after your own thick hide."

"You think that will resolve everything?" Thorin's voice rose. "You're a fool if you believe that any Dwarf can survive on his own. Your brothers have sacrificed their livelihood for your sake, and your mother –!"

"Don't bring Dís into this!" Frerin shouted.

"Your mother is tearing herself apart worrying about _you_ and whether she'll see you alive again! Tell me that no one is looking after you!"

"It didn't stop you before!"

The screamed words rang against the firepit. Panting, Frerin eased back, his fists clenched. "She begged you to see me home safely _before_. Why didn't you listen to her?"

Regret flamed anew in Thorin's eyes. "Frerin, I –"

"No! Don't do it. Stop repeating everything I've heard from Dwalin!" Frerin sighed jaggedly and waved Thorin away. "I can believe it from him. He made up for it when I was born. But _you?_ You never wanted me around!"

"That is not true, Frerin!" Thorin stamped closer, a storm hurling over a small ship. "Not a day went by when I wanted to turn back time – when I pleaded with the Fates to bring you back to life. If there had been another chance, then yes! I would have –"

"I didn't want another chance!" Frerin's ragged gasps filled the silence. "I don't want another chance," he repeated softly. "Frerin son of Thrain died in battle, and I want him to stay dead. I don't have a third brother. My mother's name is Dís. This is the only life I care about."

"Frerin!"

"No, listen to me!" Frerin scrubbed his hand over his face, straining for composure. "I'll reclaim the mountain for you. I'll call you my king. But I can't trust you, Thorin – I can't stand that kind of betrayal again."

"This is your final answer?" Thorin said softly, the question wrenched from his unwilling heart.

"Yes." Frerin nodded. "This is my final answer."

Thorin flexed his hands, searching for an answer. "So be it," he said hazardly. Whirling on his heel, he stomped from the room. The door slammed behind him and a window shattered.

Instantly Frerin deflated. He sank into a chair, trembling. For a long moment he sat alone, knees drawn up to his chest, thin shoulders heaving. At last he buried his head in his arms, sobbing with the heartache of a boy who had just lost everything.


	43. Tell Me Does It Show?

Before Bilbo could offer a word of comfort, before Frerin could change his mind, a dull thump shook the outermost door and the windows beside. Frerin stiffened and wiped his eyes dry. Muttering a wicked expletive (which involved Lobelia and silver spoons), Bilbo followed the young Dwarf into the hall. He sprinted into another room and yanked off the ring, taking a moment to gather his composure before sauntering out like nothing had happened.

"Is someone at the door?"

"I was told you have a young Shireling in your care."

Bilbo stopped in the hall. The voice was rich and deep, ringing with authority. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and stepped into the central room. "I am the Hobbit."

The towering, white robed figure seemed to glow against the night. He wound both hands around his staff and peered down at Bilbo. "I am Saruman, of the White Council."

"Another wizard?" Thorin nodded vaguely, remembering. "Gandalf mentioned you."

"Then he has told you of the importance of your quest."

Oin rolled his eyes. "Bah! The wizard lit off before we reached the forest. A lot of good he did!"

"Are you his replacement?" Ori asked wondrously.

"Had I the chance, I would lead you all to Erebor. Alas, I fear my work is of graver purpose. Which of you is the Dwarf who was raised in the Shire?"

Confused, the Dwarves parted to reveal Frerin.

Bilbo closed his eyes in mortification. "No, he didn't." _Gandalf, who else have you told?_

"So, this is the offspring of Durin," Saruman said. "Radagast's brain is not so addled as I thought." He swept ponderously into the room and looked down on Frerin. "Your presence is welcome in Middle Earth."

"What's he talking about?" Bofur asked. "What's so important about Frerin?"

"Gandalf has neglected to inform you, I see. Naturally. The Grey Wizard always keeps his secrets." Saruman turned methodically, and perhaps it was accident or deliberation that he halted where the fire could flicker moodily behind him.

"What are you saying?" Bilbo hissed, feeling trapped and wanting nothing more than to hustle Frerin out of the inn. "There is nothing to be secretive about!"

"So, he has told one of you." Saruman raised one eyebrow. "Protecting your Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins? You cannot hide him from his fate forever."

Thorin thrust a hand in front of Bilbo before he could speak. "What fate?"

Saruman smiled patiently, like an elder tutoring a silly child. "Surely word of the prophecy has reached the ears of Thorin Oakenshield."

"What prophecy?" Dwalin growled.

"That Durin the Deathless has come alive in the heir who was born of ash and flame."

"It's not true!" Frerin lashed out. "I'm never meant to fulfill anything!"

"My poor boy," Saruman said with grave sympathy. "You do not know the significance behind your own birth."

"What are you talking about?" Dwalin snapped, pushing Frerin behind him. "Speak plainly, old man!"

"An hundred years past the day when Azog vanquishes the line of Durin, a star will be reborn; a twist born of Fate, who will eradicate Azog's line and return the Lonely Mountain to what it was before." Saruman paused and surveyed them all. "Why, do none of you know this? Frerin son of Bilbo Baggins is no Hobbit at all. He is the son of Thrain, son of Thrór – Durin reborn in the frame of a child."

"Mahal save us," Thorin breathed.

"This is an outrage!" Dwalin shouted. "Enough of these fantasies of yours! Leave this town at once, before I throw you out as a madman."

"Do not treat my words so lightly," Saruman snapped disdainfully. "You cower in rocks, hiding from that which you cannot understand."

"There's nothing to understand," Kíli piped in. "He's … _Frerin!_"

"He's our brother," Fíli added.

"He can't do anything!" Kíli frowned sharply and looked back at Frerin. "I mean, not anything _overdramatic_, that is. No, wait. I meant that –" Fíli slapped his elbow.

"Get out of this room," Dwalin rumbled. "Leave town, and stay away from my son."

"I came to warn you," Saruman said calmly. His words roiled over Bilbo, and for a moment the Hobbit wondered why everyone was fighting. It seemed perfectly reasonable to listen to Saruman's wisdom and….

Frerin shifted close and clutched Bilbo's hand, and everything snapped back into place. Frowning fiercely, Bilbo stepped forth to protect his fauntling.

"Azog will not allow the starborn heir to live." The dire warning commanded silence. Saruman watched them all keenly, and it seemed to Bilbo as though one by one, the Dwarves fell under his spell. "He will hunt the boy down and kill him. It has already been tried once, and still the heir lives. Azog will not fail a second time."

"Then what are we supposed to do?" Thorin asked hopelessly.

Saruman held out one hand, his voice tempting and surreal. "Leave the boy under my care. I can protect him where Fate cannot. He will be safe."

"You're a liar!" Bilbo exclaimed. He glared at Thorin, wanting to shake him. "You can't protect him from anything. I don't know who you think you are, but I know one thing; Frerin is safer where he is _right now_ than with a complete stranger. Now, I suggest you finish your business in Laketown and keep moving, because this bosh and nonsense about stars and prophecies is making me very angry!"

Breaking from a daze, Thorin shook himself and stalked to the door. He flung it wide, and Saruman's light no longer seemed pure compared to the gleam of the moon on newfallen snow.

"You have wasted enough of our time," Thorin growled. "Be on your way."

Saruman's eyes narrowed flintily. He dipped his head in farewell, moving leisurely to the door. "If it pleases you. But do not blame me if disaster befalls you on your journey."

As soon as the trim of Saruman's robe crossed the threshold Thorin slammed the door shut. He leaned his fist against it, trembling with strain. Ragged blue eyes immediately sought Frerin.

Slowly the young Dwarf crumpled into a chair. "That … that's it, isn't it?" he said, laughing brokenly.

"What was that about?" Bofur demanded. "What just happened? Who is this heir?"

"I'm going to my room," Frerin said jaggedly. He limped down the hall, and Bilbo heard him tumble twice. Not since the lad was sixteen had his legs tripped him up so badly.

"Bilbo, this does not need to concern you," Thorin said gently. He nodded towards the hall and Bilbo understood. Whispering his thanks, he rushed to find Frerin.

When Bilbo opened the door, he very nearly called for help. He had seen Frerin cry, scream and hide when he was afraid, but anger was a realm he had never tampered in.

A water pitcher had been flung across the room, and feathers dusted the room from a pillow that looked like it had been trounced dreadfully. In fact, it looked like Frerin had punched it a good many times before he finally resorted to kicking the bedstand. He growled between clenched teeth, slamming his fists and feet into hard oak.

"Frerin, stop – stop," Bilbo urged. Fleetingly he glanced to the door, wondering if he should send for Dwalin. Just as quickly he moved behind Frerin and wrapped his arms around him, whispering and shushing as Frerin yowled like a cat and tried to squirm free.

"Frerin, stop. It's going to be all right. Please, you'll hurt yourself. I won't let them do anything to you, do you understand? Frerin, please don't do this!"

Frerin fell back, knuckles bleeding and knees shaking uncontrollably. Together the two sank to the floor. Frerin curled his knees to his chest, clutching his side.

"Frerin, calm down," Bilbo pleaded. "We'll sort this out."

"I hate it!" Frerin gasped. "Why couldn't I have stayed dead, Bilbo? Why do they all want me?"

"Listen to me, there is no expectation you have to live up to!" Bilbo said strongly. "Whatever the wizard says, whatever Gandalf says – nothing matters except that you are alive, and this is _your_ future ahead. Frerin son of Thrain is _dead_. Durin is dead." He moved in front of Frerin and grabbed his shoulders, coaxing him back to reality. "You are Frerin of the Shire. Your mother is Dís and your father is Dwalin. You have two brothers named Fíli and Kíli, and an uncle named Thorin. Nothing else matters, do you hear me? Nothing has to change!"

Frerin flung Bilbo's hand away. "It's already changed, Bilbo! Everyone knows what happened to me. Even if I never kill a single Orc, they _know_ it was true. I can never escape Azanulbizar!"

"Yes, you can!" Bilbo insisted. "Frerin, I'm a Baggins! I'm destined to live a quiet life with no adventures whatsoever, but here I am sitting in an inn filled with thirteen Dwarves! I've travelled with Elves and wizards, and I'm expected to enter a dragon's lair. Azanulbizar will never define you, Frerin. You are so much more than a ghost from the past."

"Tell me!" Frerin shouted desperately. "Tell me what I am!"

"Well… you're an inventor," Bilbo began uncertainly. "You make odd contraptions that no one sees a use for, and most of these clutter up Lobelia's walls."

Frerin laughed frantically and scooted closer.

"You play the fiddle," Bilbo continued. "You're a terrible gardener, but you enjoy teaching children – Samwise especially, and little Rosie."

"I wonder if the twisty-tree is still growing right," Frerin murmured, valiantly trying to hide himself in Bilbo's world.

"You hate dogs, even though you gave Farmer Maggot a new pup for his birthday last year. You like having your tea at four separate times during the day, but you're never home at four o'clock – mostly because those beastly Hobbits keep inviting you in for cake."

"I like cake," Frerin piped in. His posture was more relaxed, but his voice wavered dangerously and he latched onto Bilbo's every word.

"You enjoy reading when there are clouds, and don't lie to me, I have caught you outside in the rain without a hood on more than one occasion."

"Rain is clean," Frerin said with a faint smile. "It makes me feel like the world is a brighter place."

"Yes, well you don't seem to catch colds often – except every winter you come down with a terrible cough."

"I hate Lobelia's cough syrup," Frerin grumbled.

"That's the only fault you see in her," Bilbo scoffed. "She's your favorite Amadnamad, therefore she is perfect."

Frerin laughed. "She's my _only_ Amadnamad!" His brow puckered in concentration. "Except Maér, I suppose. She only comes in the spring, though, and I rarely talk with her." He sighed, shivered, and focused his attention on Bilbo. "Tell me more."

"You ... like bees," Bilbo said. "You told me they're busy and attractive, and they never have anything important to do. You used to watch them for hours at a time. I could hardly pull you away."

"I was a little nervous around Beorn's bees," Frerin admitted. "Beorn showed me how to pet one, but …" He shuddered and made a face. "I'd hate to be stung."

"Well, you are allergic to coltsfoot, so I wouldn't be surprised if bees were dangerous as well."

Glazed brown eyes sought a hero's guidance. Frerin ground his palm against his forearm, forcing out the words. "Bilbo, I want to return to the Shire when this is over. I don't want to be a Dwarf anymore."

Bilbo nodded slowly, refusing to think on how Frerin's family would react. "Well, then … when this is over, we should certainly plan accordingly. Until then…" He smiled sympathetically and patted Frerin's arm. "Don't let them force you to become anything more than what you feel inside."

* * *

_Saruman turned the pages methodically, pausing at the illustration of a warrior of light standing before a mountainous shadow. Durin's heir. Destined to eradicate the line of Azog, or in turn sacrifice the survival of his own dwindling race. _

"_His presence is unnecessary," Saruman said to his messenger. "Kill him. When Thorin Oakenshield reaches the Lonely Mountain, he too will fall, as will his remaining heirs."_

_The weasley man grunted and stalked into the cold blackness. Saruman turned another page and intently studied the second illustration, where shadowed forms crushed the figure of Durin. Slowly he murmured the inscribed runes._

"_And a curse shall lie upon him, till the hour of death be spent. Then dawn will see the defiler's ruin, and Durin shall live again."_

* * *

**A.N.** No memory scenes this time. :( It just didn't fit.

Favorite = Yes, you can punch Gandalf for holding secrets (at your own risk of wizard curses).

Review = Play the ukulele in Isengard until Saruman is driven mad and chases you out. (Sanctuary from wizard curses is included.)


	44. That Star is No Longer Wished Upon

"_Ama." Tentatively Frerin chewed his thumb, offering her a picture. There was a lot of smeared charcoal at the base, littered with darker streaks, and the bulky outline of a grinning giant holding a …._

"_Is that a head?" D__ís covered her mouth against a shriek._

_Frerin ducked, twisting his hands in shame. "Rukhs."_

_No. Not from her little boy. She would not let him be raised with images of Orcs and death._

"_I'm speaking to Dwalin about this." Ripping the parchment angrily, she thrust it into the fireplace. Oh, she had words for her husband! And for Balin, as well, and Thorin if he'd had any part in Frerin's new 'artistry.'_

_Frerin's knees gave out and he fell smack on his rear, his eye reflecting the burning picture and nothing more. He tucked his hands under his shirt and bent over, keening softly. At once D__ís knelt beside him, lifting the dejected chin._

"_Hush, little one. There is nothing in Balin's stories that can harm you. Don't be afraid."_

"_Rakhâs!" he whispered piteously._

"_No, Frerin! No Orcs here. Don't think on it, my love."_

_He pressed his hands over his mouth, determined to obey. He was too devoted to her, poor bairn, and Dís sometimes wondered if she abused that power._

"_Don't draw it again, my love," she begged. "Draw me happy things?"_

_So he did. Lopsided ponies and grassy knolls, blue skies and snow that was untarnished by boot prints._

_She wanted him to speak of what was troubling him at night, and he could not._

_He wanted to draw the things which terrified him, and she would not have it._

_It was not until Bilbo introduced the dream journals that Frerin learned how to communicate his fears._

* * *

(TA 2912, 30 years before the Quest. Frerin is 13)

"Frerin, won't you come out?"

Bilbo swept the covers off the floor and sighed when Frerin whimpered. "I'm not going to drag you out of there. But it's past second breakfast. Wouldn't you like to eat?"

"Tak!" Frerin said tragically.

"Toast?" Bilbo guessed. "Would you like some toast with honey?"

The fauntling whimpered and drew his legs in closer. "Ta_aa_k."

"Oh, dear. I'm not sure what you mean." Unsure what else to do, Bilbo eased himself onto the floor. "Hold on, I'm coming in."

Wriggling through masses of dust bunnies that had somehow escaped the broom, he crawled until his feet almost cleared the bed frame and his hand was close enough for Frerin to touch.

"There, it's not so bad in the dark, is it?"

Frerin looked delighted. "Bihbo cam?"

"Yes, I managed to fit quite well," Bilbo grunted, ignoring the creak in his back and the gurgle as his stomach pressed against the floor.

Smiling with gapped teeth, Frerin dragged himself by torturous inches until he was tucked into Bilbo's arms. The Hobbit frowned when he saw the rigidness in Frerin's limbs.

"Frerin, did you … did you have one of your fits again? Can you move your legs?"

Sadly Frerin shook his head. "Tak."

_Stuck,_ he meant. Bilbo clacked his tongue, wishing he had known before.

"Would you like me to carry you to the table?"

Sniffling, Frerin nodded enthusiastically. "Tak."

He would have to speak to the apothecary about these fits. This was most certainly unhealthy for any Dwarven child.

"Right then," Bilbo said, easing himself back until he could pull out without bonking his head. He lifted Frerin and dusted him off, hushing the little one's whimpers before taking him to the kitchen.

"Would you like tea? Scones? Lobelia left some cake yesterday."

"Cak?" Frerin lisped hopefully.

"All right, then. Normally I would save that for tea, but we can make an exception this time."

Sighing happily, Frerin laid his head back on Bilbo's shoulder. "Bihbo, Bihbo," he sang. "Cak!"

* * *

(Present Quest, TA 2941)

An alarming thud woke Bilbo. He pattered into the hall, relieved to only find Frerin sheepishly rubbing his shins.

"Tripped on a chair," Frerin whispered.

"Frerin, where are you going?"

The young Dwarf blinked in confusion, and then bashfully held up a chipped cup. "I couldn't sleep. I thought maybe some tea would help." He looked worriedly at the closed doors. "I hope I didn't wake anyone."

"No harm done, lad. We were already waiting for you."

Frerin scrambled upright as Balin's voice drifted from the right. An oil lamp was struck, illuminating the faces of twelve solemn Dwarves. Frerin muttered an oath.

"You were expecting him?" Bilbo accused, trotting up to stand beside Frerin.

Balin nodded serenely. "We've been discussing the entire matter since the wizard left; we were only waiting for him to wake on his own." He smiled amiably at Frerin. "Come now, lad. There's nothing to fear among your own kin."

Unwillingly Frerin pulled the chair upright and sat, drawing his knees up to his chest. "What do you want from me?"

"Quite simply, nothing at all." Balin's was the voice of reason, and Bilbo felt calmed as he scooted a chair beside Frerin's. "You have a great deal to sort through in that head of yours, I expect. Not thirty-two years ago I watched you play with your brothers like any other bairn. Much has changed over time."

Frerin did not answer. Bilbo took a moment to survey the others. Fíli watched his brother quietly, absently scratching a rusted nail into the table until the grooves overran each other. Kíli's eyes burned with lack of sleep, making his stare all the more intense. Ori had knitted into the same loop until his scarf hung by an ever increasing chain. Oin's eyebrows scruffed out reproachfully (although Bilbo suspected he was attempting to look cordial) and Gloin dragged his finger down a scar in the table as though it would absolve the worries of Middle Earth if he could only discover its purpose.

Bofur and Bombur looked on with worried eagerness. They may have known little of Erebor's prince, but they remembered Dís' son and honored Frerin for Bifur's memory. Dori knitted his hands like an anxious, doting aunt and Nori chose to pick at a hangnail.

Dwalin sat closest. As soon as Frerin had joined them he'd shuffled a bit nearer. He folded his hands across the table, looking ever more like a watchful mother hen. Whatever distance he had felt since Frerin's confession, he was clearly putting it behind and taking up the role as father. Bilbo quickly averted his gaze to Frerin's chipped cup, lest the Dwarves notice his satisfied smile.

He risked a peek at Thorin, and had to fight down a sigh. The Dwarven king glanced periodically at Frerin, his eyes shifting rapidly as though he was afraid that either he or Frerin would react if they stared at one another too long. He needn't have worried; Frerin was more interested in the hole in his trouser knee than his brother-turned-uncle.

"I'm not any different," Frerin mumbled. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I haven't changed at all. Please don't look at me like I'm going to die any second."

Balin chuckled lightly, and Bilbo wondered if he had suspected Frerin's past all along. "No, you're right. You've come a long way since the Shire, but you're still the son of Dís. The past can never be erased. With some luck, though, perhaps we can overlook it."

Frerin's brow furrowed sharply and Balin clarified, "We don't want you to be afraid because you're a prince. Whatever you want to forget, it will never be spoken of again. Give us time, lad, and your future will be as bright as if you'd never left the Blue Mountains."

"But I'm glad I left," Frerin said softly. He looked up and saw the lance in Dwalin's eyes, and added hastily, "I mean, I never stopped missing home, and I wish I had grown up with you and Amad, but if I hadn't met Bilbo … I'd never be here today."

"He speaks rightly," Balin said, trying to keep the tone light. "We would never have allowed him to accompany us at such a young age."

"Nor would his mother," Thorin said sternly. "I have yet to hear her reply, but she will have my head for not sending him home."

He and Frerin made a point of looking anywhere but at each other.

"Now then, tell us what needs be done, lad," Balin said disarmingly. He shifted in front of Thorin, and Bilbo thought he saw him kick Thorin under the table. "Would you prefer we know you as Frerin of the Shire, born in the Blue Mountains and raised by Bilbo Baggins?"

"No, that's…. that's not it at all." Frerin shuffled uncomfortably, flustered at the response. "I _want_ my family. Everyone in the Blue Mountains… I can't give that up. I just …." He sighed unhappily. "I want to pretend Thrain's son isn't here."

Balin's eyes softened in pity. "We can do that, lad."

"It won't make anything go away," Fíli warned kindly. "You're still having nightmares."

"It doesn't matter," Frerin said in a clipped tone. "Mum doesn't need to know. No one has to treat me differently. I just want to be normal again."

"Well, the lad has said it," Balin announced. "Frerin son of Dwalin, son of Fundin, welcome to the company of Thorin Oakenshield."

Bilbo bit his knuckles, wishing it could be so easy.

* * *

"He can't stay with us." Thorin whispered heatedly.

The other Dwarves had departed to their rooms and Bilbo was scavenging in the kitchen when he overheard.

"Thorin, must I repeat that this is no longer your brother. Mahal knows he has a right to forget his past life, and we shall not remind him of it."

"Balin, he is only waiting to die. Send him home with the Hobbit."

"His name is Bilbo."

"You know what I'm saying!"

"Thorin, I understand the difficulty you have been placed in. No one knows more than I that this is not the way things were meant to be."

"Of course it isn't! He should be alive now, with a wife and bairns of his own; not cowering behind a Shireling like –"

"Thorin, you cannot reverse Azanulbizar. Be glad for what we have now. It's not too late."

"Too late," Thorin scoffed. "Azanulbizar was too late. Bifur's death was too late. He should never have left Bag End."

"Oh, are you all so thick skulled?" Bilbo snapped. He regretted speaking at once, but there was nothing to be done for it. Gathering his courage, he stepped before the Dwarves. "You're exactly what he needs! More than… well, even more than he needs me. You're his real family."

Balin raised one eyebrow and Bilbo insisted, "He won't be healed until he knows he can trust you again. Forgetting the past will accomplish nothing. He can't move on without knowing that _here_ and _now_, as prince of Erebor _and_ Dís' son, he will be welcomed."

"You think we haven't tried?" Thorin said brokenly, holding up the journal. "You have everything right here. You know it cannot be done."

Bilbo grabbed the diary and flung it into the corner. "Then rewrite it. Show him that you're not the same brother he knew. He wants to trust you, Thorin. He's been afraid all this time because he thinks that if he's the same Frerin from before, you'll throw him away. Prove him wrong! Or else…." Slowly Bilbo shook his head. "… Or else you'll lose everything."

* * *

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